A Bleeding Heart of Oak
by Steadfast-Bright-Star
Summary: Historical Age of Sail AU. In 1785, Arthur is a brilliant young naval captain trying to keep his love of men a secret . When the funny, handsome, infuriatingly charming Alfred joins his crew, Arthur is captivated. But that can't be. Arthur and Alfred are both men, and the rules on that sort of thing are very clear in the Navy. NOW UPDATED WITH A MINI SEQUEL! YAY!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Hey there readers, and welcome to the new story! I promise that I'm not neglecting 'The Tenth Muse', it's just that this one came to me today in the middle of a rounders match and had to be written down. I've tried to keep the technical detail to a minimum but I'll include any necessary historical notes at the end of each chapter. Historical AUs are hard to write, so I hope you enjoy!**

…

'Alright, alright, I'll be with you in a minute,' the barman called out impatiently. Arthur sighed to himself. Was it really so difficult to pour a single glass of wine? Apparently so, since it seemed that half the sailors in Jamaica were in the pub on that particular night. A shame, since he was desperately thirsty. Giving a little smile, he undid the fastening of his cloak so that a gleam of gold braid from his uniform coat glowed in the lamplight. He hated to pull rank in this way but well, needs must. The change in the barman's attitude was instant.

'My most sincere apologies, sir. I had taken you for a lieutenant.' He made a little half-salute. 'I was in the Navy myself, you know. On the _Amazon _back in sixty-three, so I was. Now, what will you be having?'

'Just a glass of wine, please. Whatever sort you think proper. I hardly know the difference myself.' The man nodded enthusiastically and bustled off. Arthur was used to people being surprised when they discovered that he was a captain. At twenty-three, he was the youngest one in the whole of the West Indies fleet, and among the youngest in all the Navy. He had, nonetheless, been serving for ten years, ever since he had first been sent to sea at the age of thirteen. He had experienced an awful lot in that time, making him prematurely careworn and cynical. It didn't help that he was carrying a secret, one that made him want to cry in shame every time he thought about it. Arthur was a lover of men, something that could cost him everything – his ship, his career, even his life – if he was ever caught.

This secret caused him an incredible amount of stress and pain. Every flicker of attraction he felt had to be tamped down with great force. He had to join in the other officers' bawdy conversations about women, speaking with false confidence on a subject that held no interest for him. Every letter from his mother demanding when he would find a wife had to be answered with a non-committal 'not yet'. In short, his life was founded on lies and had been for years. Over time, he had become practised at splitting himself into two and had made himself appear to be a ruthless professional man. Anyone watching him, however, would have seen that illusion shattered before their eyes when his wine arrived. Arthur did not make a habit of drinking, since it did not sit well with him, but tonight was a special occasion. Tonight, 17th April 1785, marked the sixth anniversary of the death of Francis, his dearest friend.

Thanking the barman, he raised his glass in a solitary toast.

'To Francis. I hope you found your home, wherever it was.' he whispered, making sure that no-one was watching. He dashed away a tear. Francis, he reminisced, had been an enigma. He fought against his home country of France by joining the British Navy and before that had lived and worked in a succession of far-flung places. He had never been able to find a single place that had been home to him. He was always moving and nothing he did or said ever carried any great weight because he would probably change his mind about it within a few days. At any rate, a well-aimed musket ball, fired by one of his countrymen, had put paid to his wanderings. Arthur could only be glad that he had been there when it had happened. The memory washed over him, its vividness not at all diminished by time and the emotions it provoked just as raw as ever.

'_Francis, my God, Francis!' Arthur had seen his friend collapse to the deck and, heedless of the lieutenant's angry calls to remain on his station, had rushed over to him. 'Where are you hurt? Is it bad? I can… We can…' Francis propped himself up with one arm, even though his strength was already leaving him._

'_Arthur, I will die, that is certain. Look here, look how deep it is. Look how fast the blood is coming out. And the lieutenant there is calling you. You have deserted your post. Do not risk your career on a dying man. The problem with dead men is that they can neither thank nor repay you for your trouble.' Arthur began to cry, ashamed of doing so when Francis was facing death with such fortitude. He had to tell him something._

'_Francis, I…' Francis raised a finger to his lips._

'_Don't say it. Nothing you say now can do anyone any good. Go now and I will die happy.'_

Coming abruptly out of his memory, Arthur dropped his glass onto the bar, where it shattered. He jumped up, cursing as a few drops of the dark wine spattered onto his white breeches. The barman rushed over with a cloth, looking exasperated at yet another spillage.

'Good Lord, I don't know how it happened! Here, name the price and I'll pay you back.' He reached into his pocket, hoping he had a couple of shillings left in order to do so but the barman shook his head.

'Don't you worry now, sir. It happens to the best of us sometimes. Now, will you have another?' Arthur shook his head. Being out on this particular evening was feeling like less of a good idea.

'No thank you. I'd best be off now – can't leave the ship for too long and all that.' He did up his cloak again, even though it wasn't needed on such a humid tropical night, and went out, bound for the harbour.

It was fortunate that he knew his way there well, for his mind was a thousand miles away. He remembered his first meeting with Francis – then an impressionable fifteen-year-old midshipman, he had been helplessly drawn to the man with his exotic accent, endless supply of improbable stories and way of seeming somehow superior to the other sailors despite his equality in rank. From somewhere, Arthur had found the courage to talk to him and they had become best friends despite the five-year age gap that existed between them. He had at first tried to communicate in his execrable schoolboy French but soon gave it up in favour of speaking English, since Francis was perfect at it, although his voice had a pleasingly musical foreign shade to it. He supposed that it had been on one of the evenings where they sat chatting while Francis taught him about how to appear like a man of culture that he had fallen desperately in love. He had fought it, he truly had, and had managed to keep it to himself until Francis died. He wondered, as he often had over the years, whether it was just possible that Francis might have felt the same way, if that was the reason why he had hushed him on the verge of making his confession.

He took a grim sort of pride in containing his desires. He knew that, when in London, there were places he could go to enjoy the society of those like him, but he had no inclination to visit them. He keenly felt the disgust of others and viewed those who paraded themselves along Birdcage Walk with a similar sort of revulsion. He poured scorn on their bright clothing, their towering wigs, their powdered faces, the elaborate systems of signals by which they identified each other. No, he had been raised to think, and come to believe, that what he felt towards men was wrong. He looked back over the few months leading up to his joining the Navy, when every time he smiled at an attractive young man in public earned him a sharp slap from one or other of his parents in private. The first time had been a shock.

'_Mama, do you see that boy there?' asked the thirteen-year-old Arthur, pointing out of the window of the carriage._

'_Yes, what about him?' _

'_I think he's really handsome.' His mother's face had twisted up in fury and she hadn't said another word for the whole journey. Then, when they had arrived home…_

'_Don't' – smack –'you' – smack – 'ever' – smack 'dare to say something like that ever again!'_

'_I don't understand. What was it I said?' He was sobbing and bewildered, racking his brains for whatever comment might have offended her. She hit him harder and he fell, landing on his backside and painfully jarring his spine in the process._

'_Don't you go looking at those pretty-boys ever again. You make me sick, you little sodomite!' That was the first time Arthur had ever heard the word. He would hear it many times again and every time he did it would set his heart racing, wondering if it had been aimed at him. Sometimes he half-worried that people could see his secret streaming out behind him like a heraldic banner. His father had been informed of the incident and given him another beating with a heavy stick. Arthur couldn't stand up properly for days after that one. And it had only been the first._

Arthur was spared from yet more agonising thoughts when a young man in a lieutenant's uniform all but ran him down and then walked on, apparently oblivious. He turned to shout something to this obnoxious stranger but he had already gone on too far to be within earshot. Arthur wondered where he was off to. Probably looking for good wine and middling women like most of the men did when they came into port. He gave the matter no further thought until he came aboard his own ship.

'Sir, the new lieutenant arrived while you were gone,' Ludwig, his Hanoverian first lieutenant informed him, once he had saluted him. Really, the British Navy was far more international than one might expect. Ludwig had explained to Arthur that his rationale for joining was that, since King George was also Elector of Hanover, his loyalty wasn't at all compromised. Arthur was simply grateful to have such a capable officer on board. Sometimes his youth led crews to think that they could take liberties but Ludwig stopped any of that.

'Ah, excellent. Did you send him to his cabin?' Ludwig looked slightly embarrassed.

'Actually, sir, I told him that it would be best if he came back in the morning and reported to you personally. He went to get a room in the town but he left his sea chest here.' Suddenly, Arthur realised something.

'I ran into a man in a lieutenant's uniform on my way here. He seemed quite rude. I wonder if that might have been him. Well, that remains to be seen.' He returned Ludwig's salute and climbed down the ladder to his cabin, pausing on the gundeck as he did so. Even now, all hung about with the sailors' hammocks, it cut a fine sight. HMS _Honourable_, 28-gun frigate, and it was all under his command. No matter how terrible he felt about his personal life, he could always take pleasure in his profession.

….

The next morning, Arthur felt a little better than he had the previous night. His memories of Francis were safely back where they belonged – locked away with all his other disgraceful thoughts. Now, standing on the upper deck, the preparations to set sail going on all around him while he and the lieutenants oversaw proceedings and occasionally shouted out an order here or there.

'Beilschmidt, did you order this new lieutenant to come at a particular time?' he asked, turning to Ludwig.

'No, sir. I only said to come today.' Arthur tried not to roll his eyes.

'Well, never mind then. At any rate, he'll see us getting ready and come running. He can't very well leave all his worldly goods to go sailing away into the mist.'

'Indeed not, sir,' Ludwig replied somewhat stiffly, a little embarrassed at being so remiss. No sooner had this conversation come to an end than the minor shrilling of the pipes announced the arrival of an officer. The new lieutenant was finally making an appearance.

Arthur looked him up and down. Sandy-blonde hair, mid-blue eyes, a well-formed face… and he was tall, though not quite a match for Ludwig. He was handsome, so much so that Arthur had to take a moment to compose himself.

'Name?' he asked, flattening his voice until it was totally expressionless.

'Alfred Jones, sir.' Arthur let out an involuntary gasp. The man was American, and in the Royal Navy just two short years after the end of the war. Well, he thought, good luck to him commanding any sort of respect. He would be absolutely ripped to shreds. The _Honourables_, as Arthur fondly called them, were a patriotic bunch. At any rate, his nationality certainly explained his lack of manners.

'Just your surname will suffice, Jones. I am Captain Kirkland. I understand that you are only recently a lieutenant, is that correct?'

'It is, sir, I passed my exam just one week ago. The captain in charge said…' Arthur stopped him impatiently.

'I have no wish to hear what he said. Your achievement should speak for itself, without any superfluous comments from anyone. Now, your letter of commission, if you please.' Chastened, Alfred mutely handed it over, watching uncertainly as Arthur's green eyes scanned the crabbed writing.

'Well then, everything seems to be in order. Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Jones. I trust I'll see you at dinner.'

…..

Later that evening, once the meal was in full swing, Arthur took the opportunity to eavesdrop on a conversation between Ludwig and Alfred. Tempers seemed to be running high.

'I just don't see why we have to say it all the time,' Alfred was complaining. 'It makes me feel uncomfortable.'

'It's a mark of respect, Mr Jones. It acknowledges seniority.' Ludwig replied, apparently trying not to become angry.

'But does not respect lose all meaning if it is forced rather than earned?' Alfred was becoming impassioned and Arthur judged it to be a good time to intervene.

'What's the issue here, Beilschmidt?' he asked in his most imperious voice. It had the desired effect. Ludwig blushed deeply.

'Well, sir, Mr Jones here was questioning the necessity – indeed the validity – of addressing officers as 'sir'.' he replied. Arthur leaned back a little in his carved chair, affecting nonchalance.

'You surprise me, Jones. You seem far too liberal to be siding with the old country. Do you not want your freedom, now that so many lives have been sacrificed to obtain it?' Arthur knew that his voice was growing bitter and angry but made no attempt to modulate his tone. Francis had been among those who had lost their lives. Alfred shook his head sadly.

'My brother fought on the side of the rebels and was killed in a poorly-planned attack back in seventy-nine. I was thirteen at the time and my father signed me up as a midshipman as soon as he heard that Matthew was dead. He was a staunch loyalist. I suppose he thought that the honour of having one son fight on the British side would rid him of the shame that the other had died a rebel.' He stopped for a moment, looking down. When his eyes met Arthur's again, he broke into the jaunty smile that Arthur was beginning to realise was his customary expression. 'Besides, the promotion opportunities are better here, are they not? What is it you people say – 'a sickly season and a bloody war'?' Arthur winced. Alfred's remark had wounded him.

'We do say that, yes. And it is true, unfortunately so. I lost my dearest friend to a bullet and very nearly met my own end from malaria.' The lad was starting to annoy him. For someone who had been in the Navy for six years, he seemed rather like it was his first day. Then again, maybe it was just his childish enthusiasm for everything. Arthur suddenly felt very tired. Sometimes, he felt far more than twenty-three.

….

_Dear Mother and Father,_

_Very little to report today or for this last week. We have a new lieutenant – American, though a loyalist. I find him to be rather tiresome and I wish we could have another like Ludwig. I need someone who can keep order. The weather continues to be excellent, though a little more humid than perhaps I would like. We set sail again today, hoping to find a few more prizes. Good wind, a chance of rain later._

_I hope that you enjoy the ball on the twenty-ninth, though I imagine that it will be long over by the time you receive this letter. Forgive its brevity, I have no time to write more._

_Your son,_

_Arthur_

He folded the letter over, ready to send the next time any post was being sent off. The part about having no time was a lie. He had plenty of time, he just couldn't settle his mind to anything. He sighed deeply. His conversation with Alfred had made him think of his when he'd had malaria. Francis had helped him through that. Francis had probably saved his life.

'_It's so hot! Why is it so hot?' A sixteen-year-old Arthur feverishly demanded, kicking his blankets off for the third time that night. Francis patiently replaced them._

'_Mon ami, I know you are fevered, but you need to be kept covered. The heat will turn to cold and then you will be grateful for these blankets. Until then, I will stay here.'_

'_Don't you… Aren't you on watch in an hour?' Francis shrugged._

'_Maybe. But I have no intention of leaving you. The ship will not, contrary to popular belief, fall apart if one man is not at his post. Please, do not worry. You, my friend, are more important to me than any of that.'_

From outside his cabin came a loud bang and a string of naval swearwords uttered in an American accent. Arthur stood up, brushing away tears he hadn't known he was shedding, and poked his head out of the door. Alfred was sitting on the floor rubbing his shin and hissing through his teeth when he touched the sore spot.

'Good God, Jones, what happened to you?' Alfred guiltily got to his feet.

'Nothing, sir. I simply knocked against there.' Arthur sighed in irritation, then stopped as he noticed Alfred's pronounced squint.

'Jones, have you ever worn spectacles?'

'No, sir,'

'Well then, for God's sake get yourself a pair next time we're ashore. I don't want my men to be going half-blind into battle.' Alfred stood up a little straighter.

'Yes sir!' he replied, saluting, then departed. Arthur retreated back into his cabin, trying to set his mind in order. A few chapters of _Tristram Shandy_, he thought, would be necessary to get that infuriatingly charming American out of his head. He was angry with himself. He had hoped, after spending so long denying his feelings for men, that they would simply fade away. Clearly, he had been wrong.

…..

**Historical Note: Ok, I'll try to keep this short! Basically, at this time the lowest officer rank in the Navy was midshipman, effectively a trainee. The average age of joining was about thirteen. After six years, you took an exam to become a lieutenant. Lieutenants were officers below the captain in a ship and most ships had quite a few of them. The next step was to make commander, allowing you to command small ships, then you became post-captain, meaning that you could command any sort of ship. Alfred is nineteen and has just become a lieutenant, Arthur is twenty-three, unusually young for a captain. HMS **_**Honourable **_**is a frigate, a ship with fewer than about forty guns. These ships either went around alone capturing enemy frigates or merchant ships or acted as fast messengers for the larger ships that went into fleet battles. If you have any more questions, I'll be happy to answer them to the best of my knowledge!**


	2. Chapter 2

The gundeck was a hive of activity. Men pulled on ropes, jammed ramrods into gun barrels and shouted to be heard over the deafening report of the shots. Boys skidded to and fro, ducking and weaving their way to their guns, the volatile powder cartridges cradled to their chests like explosive babies. To an outsider it would have seemed like chaos, a scene from some great hellish foundry, but Arthur was intimately familiar with every step of the procedure: swab out the long gun barrel, put in the powder, put the wadding on the powder, load the heavy shot… Then, with a monstrous roar, the gun would be fired, straining at its moorings as it jumped back several feet across the deck. Ideally, gun drill would be conducted as if in battle, every man knowing his position and responsibility, but this crew was raw and untrained. Several had not even bothered to cover their ears to protect themselves against the temporary deafness and maddening ringing in the ears that would follow such exposure to noise. Arthur was disappointed in them. In the last skirmish, several of the sailors had been killed and their replacements were substandard. Nonetheless, he judged that several weeks of these daily drills would whip them into shape.

As the last shot rang out, Ludwig called for silence, frowning down at his pocket watch as he did so.

'Three minutes, twelve seconds! We want to be firing at twice that speed in battle.' A few sighs and muttered comments rose from those assembled. Ludwig's rigid ideas about discipline and humourless manner did nothing to endear him to the crew. Arthur decided to step in – for him, as for every sea officer, mutiny was his greatest fear. His greatest fear after discovery, at any rate.

'What Mr Beilschmidt said was true, but I am certain that you will all reach and exceed expectations by the time you are next called upon to fight. This stretch of water has been rather quiet these last few weeks. Now, I believe that an extra tot of rum is in order for the fastest gun crew – number five, starboard side.' A cheer went up from the sailors in question, including Alfred, who had overall command of the starboard guns. Arthur raised a disapproving eyebrow at his very un-officerlike enthusiasm.

'Do I get some of the rum as well, sir?' Alfred asked eagerly. His loud voice travelled the length of the deck and several of the bolder sailors tittered behind their hands, making Arthur even more irritated. Turning to look at Alfred properly, he saw that the young man had shed his coat in the tropical heat – it lay beside one of the guns, a little way off. Arthur could see the fine shape of his subtly muscular arms through the thin fabric of his shirt. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood and tried to stop his face from reddening.

'No, Mr Jones, you may not have any rum unless you have suddenly and without orders gone to the lower deck and become a member of this gun crew.' replied Arthur, more sharply than necessary. 'And in future I do not want to see you out of full uniform without express permission.' Damn it, why couldn't the man just cover up? Why did he have to be so damned attractive? Alfred blushed and grimaced ruefully.

'Sorry, sir. When I was a mid we would always take our coats off when it was too hot. Sometimes we even went without shirts on days like these.' This set the sailors laughing uproariously. Arthur's green eyes flashed fire.

'Silence, all of you!' He went up closer to Alfred, not wanting to have an audience. 'You are no longer a midshipman, Mr Jones. You carry the King's commission and wear the uniform of his Navy. Even an American like you should understand the importance of that. Furthermore, you are expected to set a professional example to the lower ranks. That cannot happen if you undress like a docker simply because it is a little too warm for your liking. If I wanted you to go without a coat, I would order it. Dismissed.' Alfred saluted a little more smartly than Arthur would have expected him to and went off to congratulate his men.

Arthur watched him from a few yards away as he laughed and joked with them, his easy smile rising whenever something was said to him. The sailors got their rum and Alfred persuaded one of them to give him a few sips. Arthur refused to allow the scene of camaraderie to touch his heart and forced himself instead to see a total breakdown in the hierarchy in the way a commissioned officer was socialising with those of the lower deck.

'Mr Jones!' Alfred looked up guiltily from his cup.

'Yes, sir?'

'See me in my cabin when you come off watch. Mr Beilschmidt, give the men a minute to recover, then have all this stowed away.' Ludwig saluted punctiliously.

'Yes, sir.' Satisfied, Arthur retreated into the relative calm of his cabin.

….

One rock there, one there, another there… Arthur almost threw down his pencil in frustration. He hated looking at charts, particularly those as infernally complicated as the one he was currently using. Charting a course was an unavoidable task, and one that it was vital to get right, but it was still boring and difficult. The waters that _Honourable _was cruising were absolutely riddled with rocks, sandbars and sudden shallows. Even the most meticulously planned voyage could go horribly awry if they went even a point or two off course or if they ran into an uncharted obstacle. He drummed the fingers of his free hand against the desk, trying to concentrate on his work, although he was distracted a moment later by a hesitant knock.

'Come in!' he called out. His door opened a crack, then fully as Alfred gained in confidence. Eventually, he summoned up enough courage to step into the cabin. Arthur looked him up and down, noticing for the first time that his coat was far too big for him. He would address that later.

'Ah, Jones, you're here. And only five minutes late.' he couldn't resist adding.

'Sorry, sir. I forgot to write in the logbook so I had to run back and do it.' This at least was a legitimate excuse.

'Very well. And what did you write?' He was being deliberately searching. So far, Alfred was not measuring up to his expectations for a lieutenant. Alfred smiled, glad to have a question he could answer properly.

'The direction of the prevailing wind and the general state of the weather during my watch. And had anything unusual happened, I would have written that as well.' Arthur nodded, unable to find fault with this.

'Excellent. Now then, take a seat. Do you understand why you have been called here?' Alfred sat down gingerly, as if expecting to be shouted at.

'No sir, I confess I do not.' he replied, far more quietly and apprehensively than usual. Arthur took a deep breath. He truly didn't want to be too harsh.

'Jones, you're a good lad and you have the makings of a good officer. The problem is that you approach your duty too informally. You seem to be getting on well with the men already, which is always a good thing, but I think that they are beginning to consider you a friend rather than a superior. Today, I was not able to discern a single salute or other gesture of respect being given to you by any of the men you were talking to. You need to be a little more ruthless and not be afraid to discipline where it is required. The system of punishment is there to help you keep order. Do be so good as to make use of it.' Alfred looked uncomfortable.

'But sir, surely there are other ways of maintaining a harmonious ship without resorting to violence.' His blue eyes, though squinty, shone with conviction. God, he was beautiful, Arthur thought before remembering that he was supposed to ignore those sorts of things.

'Be careful, Jones. You are very close to overstepping the mark. That was an order, not a recommendation. I expect to see you acting as a senior officer from now on, is that understood?' Alfred's expression became so downcast that Arthur hastily tacked on an explanation in a softer voice. 'I too would rather not have to punish the men with violence but this is a tough crew. Only a taste of the rope's end can instil any measure of respect in the more intractable of them.'

Alfred looked down at his hands for a moment, lost in thought. His hair suddenly appeared almost gilded as a shaft of sunlight struck it. Eventually, he spoke again.

'Sir, I wondered… Might I ask a question?' He had evidently recovered his self-confidence.

'You may. But make it quick. I have work and I am sure that you have no desire to spend your hours of leisure in here.' he replied, trying to dissuade the lieutenant from asking anything too probing.

'Forgive my forwardness, sir, but I have often heard of your doings and come to admire you. What would you say is the best way to achieve such early promotion as yours?' Arthur's cynicism saw this as a simple exercise in gathering patrons through open flattery.

'Through sheer hard work. Some men have their passage through the ranks eased by their connections but I was not among their number – indeed, I was often mocked for the fact that my father was a humble country doctor. I rose to this position by proving my command ability under very difficult circumstances. You must do the same. Men who owe everything to patronage are owed nothing by their subordinates and fail once they reach high rank. Men who work hard and succeed are competent and respected. There is really nothing more to it than that.' Alfred's face was once again lit by its beatific smile.

'Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to remember that. I'll be a great admiral one day, or so I hope.' Arthur let one corner of his mouth lift. It was rare to find a lieutenant with such pure ambition. Most were simply hellbent on getting prize money.

'Well, even the greatest admirals start off as lieutenants in frigates. I admire your dedication, and good luck to you. Oh, and by-the-by, are you planning to grow any more?' Alfred's smile turned to a confused frown. 'Your coat. It's rather too large now, is it not?'

'It was not made for me, sir. I could not afford a new one. My father… He and I no longer speak for… certain reasons and I struggled to manage on my midshipman's wage once he stopped sending me money. The naval tailors charge such extortionate rates that I was forced to buy this from a man who had just made commander. My shirts and breeches and everything else are of the cheapest stuff.' Arthur realised that this explained the thinness of Alfred's shirtsleeves that had provided such a diverting spectacle… Enough, he told himself firmly.

'Never you mind, then. I am sorry to hear about you and your father. If you take your coat to one of the sailmakers, they may be able to fix it for you, though doubtless some sort of beverage will have to change hands first. You may go.' Looking relieved, Alfred stood up and saluted, then slipped out in the same cautious way that he had entered. Alone again, Arthur wondered what could have caused the rift between Alfred and his father. A ghost of an idea drifted into his mind. Angrily, he forced it out.

….

At dinner the following evening, the conversation turned to Arthur's least favourite subject, marriage. Every time he was asked about whether he had anyone waiting for him at home, he had to rattle off his calculatedly noble-sounding story about how he could not in all conscience leave a poor woman at home while he disappeared for months at a time – it was not unknown for men to be away for two to three years at a stretch. The general reaction was one of sympathy, then an attempt by whoever had asked to persuade him of the joys of conjugal life. Nonetheless, he was interested in hearing about Alfred's situation. In fact, it was Alfred who had begun the conversation.

'Mr Beilschmidt, I saw you writing a letter earlier. Was it to anyone in particular?' he asked with a cheeky wink. Ludwig flushed slightly.

'Yes, to my wife. My dear Feliciana.' Alfred seemed intrigued.

'Oh, you're married! How lovely. Do you have children?' Ludwig was not enjoying the interrogation.

'A boy, and another on the way. We're both hoping for a girl this time. But you, Mr Jones? Surely you must have a sweetheart.' Arthur too had expected the man to have a wife in every port and to say as much. Instead, Alfred suddenly appeared to be very discomfited.

'What? Me? Oh, no. I've never really taken much interest in women. I don't believe that any female company can rival what you'll find on a fine battleship like this one.' Arthur felt like he ought to put him out of his misery and quickly changed the subject.

'Jones, I would hardly call a frigate a battleship, although while we're on the subject, which ships were you in before this one? I would surmise that they all had rather lax regulations.' At this prompting, Alfred recited a list of vessels. As he had feared, Arthur recognised several of them as having poor reputations. One in particular troubled him. 'Did you say HMS _Jupiter _just then?'

'I did indeed, sir. Why? Did you serve in her yourself?' Arthur refused to believe that Alfred was really that ignorant.

'If I had served in her, Jones, I would not be in my current position. There was a mutiny aboard the _Jupiter _two years ago. Did you not hear of it? I trust you were not involved.' To his credit, Alfred looked appalled at the very idea.

'Oh no sir, I was in the Mediterranean two years ago. And I can most confidently assure you that I would never have had any part in any sort of uprising. I may be a liberal but even I understand the importance of leadership.'

'Good. I expect you to put those ideals into practice from now on, following our conversation.' Not wanting to engage in any more chat, Arthur turned back to his plate. The rest of the meal passed in silence.

…..

It was always the worst at night. At night, there was nothing to occupy his mind or hands and stop him dwelling on his great shame and secret. All he could do was lie awake as painful thoughts tumbled through his mind. The discussion of marriage earlier had made him wonder whether it might not be easier for him to simply find a willing wife and produce an heir or two to make his father proud. Perhaps spending time with a woman might even cure him of his affliction. And he knew that what he had was a disease, doubly dangerous for it affected both the mind and the flesh. His parents had thought that a sea career would be the best thing for him. Yes, he would be surrounded by men, but they were strong, unsentimental creatures, far removed from the effeminate macaronis that his father feared he would become. Arthur had never felt attracted to that sort of man, so his father's worries had been unfounded. No, Arthur preferred men who were well-built and masculine. The sort of men found at sea. Men like Alfred.

He remembered with self-disgust the maddening curiosity of his teenage years, when he had been desperate to experience the company of others whose tastes ran to the same thing. Every time he came ashore, he would search for places where such things were possible. Every time he sought them out and sometimes he found them but whenever he did, a sudden wave of fear and self-loathing would drive him away before he even set foot inside. He shifted in his uncomfortable hammock, turning onto his side and folding his arms across his chest. The movement of the ship was so constant that he had long ago ceased to notice it, even though when he had first joined up, every violent wave had sent him leaning over the side. That pathetic, seasick little boy was long gone. He was dead and buried alongside Arthur's true self. He would not allow himself to think about Alfred. There was no way Alfred was like him. There was no way any decent man was like him. Arthur tried not to let out a sob. He was warped and dirty. He was unnatural and he knew it.

….

**Historical Note: The great guns (cannons) in a ship took a lot of practice to fire properly, so the crews would drill every day. Ludwig tells the truth when he says that they should be going at twice the speed – ninety seconds was considered an excellent time to go through all the steps of actually firing a gun. The patrons Arthur dismisses were men – sometimes naval officers, sometimes politicians or aristocrats – who would speak for young officers who were looking for postings, so it helped to be well-connected. The macaronis Arthur thinks about were a fashion movement about the 1770s. Their outlandish styles led many people to think they were gay, something that was probably true for quite a number of them. Hope you enjoyed the chapter!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Hey readers, I hope you're enjoying the story so far! Just a quick warning that this chapter will include a battle scene and death of a minor character.**

…..

_Dearest Arthur,_

_Thank you for your letter of the seventeenth. We do love to hear about your exploits in foreign climes! The ball went very well and the music was most pleasant. Furthermore, while there, we met the Westerlys – or, more pertinently, Miss Westerly. She is a lovely girl, though a little lacking in beauty, and has all the accomplishments one could conceivably want. I shall take a leaf out of you sailors' book and be blunt. She is rich and unmarried. A wife, I believe, would do you a measure of good. Do think seriously on this proposal and keep in mind that you carry the Kirkland name, one that must be passed on. To this end, I have enclosed some more reading material that I hope will be of use to you._

_Affectionately,_

_Mother._

Arthur scowled and crumpled the letter in his fist, although he stuffed the enclosed pamphlets into his pocket to look at later. It was only out of some vestige of filial loyalty that he even opened the damned things. They were always full of news of provincial society and always contained some reference to a moneyed young woman, with an unkind reference to his predilections tacked on and some moralising literature to somehow cure him. Without doubt, Miss Westerly would be engaged to someone else by the time the next letter arrived, only to be replaced in his mother's mind by another potential daughter-in-law. These communications from home never failed to throw him into a black depression. The other sailors, however, seemed to have received more positive messages. Arthur watched with curiosity as Ludwig scanned through a long letter, his face breaking into a rare and joyous smile as he did so.

'What's the occasion, Beilschmidt? Did someone die and leave you everything?' Ludwig ignored the sardonic comment.

'I have a daughter!' he exclaimed. 'Cecilia, born on the twenty-sixth. Feliciana tells me that she has my hair.' Ludwig's face was lit by love and as he congratulated him, Arthur wondered bleakly if any woman would ever inspire the same feelings in him. Alfred had also heard the commotion and sauntered over.

'Couldn't help overhearing your good news. Very pleased for you, my man.' His voice was warm but his smile seemed strained. Something was troubling him, an unusual occurrence. A month in the man's company had taught Arthur that very little gave him more than a moment's concern. Leaving Ludwig to his bittersweet thoughts of home, Arthur walked off a little way, gesturing to Alfred to follow him.

'Jones, what's wrong with you today? You seem absolutely miserable. A death in the family?' he asked once they were alone, trying to sound sympathetic.

'Not a recent one. No, it was just a letter from my father. He is not a kind man and he has taken against me on account of our argument.' He seemed unwilling to dwell on the subject. Arthur let it drop.

'I understand. Fathers are never the easiest people to deal with. My own is desperate for me to give him an heir – though to what estate I do not know - but I must admit that I agree with you on the issue of marriage.' He mentally cursed himself for that. Even such an oblique hint could potentially blow his cover. Alfred, however, had already saluted and taken himself off somewhere, most probably to converse with the men of the lower deck. Arthur suddenly felt very lonely. Ludwig had his wife and son and now a daughter, Alfred had his sailors but Arthur had no-one at all.

….

_And furthermore, those that partake in this most despicable vice are no better than… _

_That most sordid of creatures, the Sodomite…_

_An affront to God and men…_

Arthur flipped the pamphlet shut, feeling dazed. As always happened when he considered the subject of his preference, his mind was going round in fruitless circles. Perhaps it was his very nature that damned him. If so then he might do whatever he pleased, if his fate was sealed either way. On the other hand, perhaps he would receive some sort of reward if he never succumbed to these sinful urges, or at least escape worse punishment. Still in a dreamlike state, he got up and went over to his shaving mirror. His face was just the same as usual: vibrant green eyes dulled by war, ash blond hair, a small nose. There was nothing to mark him out as what he was. He wondered miserably why he had been chosen to have this malady visited on him. He had never knowingly met another like him and wondered how many there were, how many ostensibly ordinary men had to suppress their true selves every day and live in unhappiness because of it. Too many, he supposed. Then he forced himself to return to his desk and pick up another of the vile tracts. The only way the evil inside him could be quelled was through great force of will. Arthur had never been under any illusion about what he felt for other men. He knew it to be wrong.

…

'Jones, do you know where Beilschmidt's taken himself off to?' Alfred looked up from his book, one of those scurrilous novels about irritating young men that were currently fashionable and that Arthur couldn't stand.

'Ah yes, he told me to tell you if you chanced to ask. He's writing a letter to his wife and the baby. He says that he has prepared letters for all his family should he never see them again. He seems to love his wife dearly,' Alfred mused. 'I sometimes wonder what it would be like to feel the same for someone. To have love returned must be the most sublime thing.' Arthur scowled down at the pages of his collection of philosophical essays. The lad never seemed to know what a fitting conversation topic was.

'He might well die and leave her bereft. And I thought that marriage held no interest for you.' he replied, trying to bring the conversation to an end.

'No, it does not, but only because I cannot imagine finding a woman to love as dearly as he loves his wife. If I ever did then I would certainly change my mind.' Arthur made a sound that could have meant anything and returned to his reading. His formal education had not gone beyond the age of ten and even then had been of a low standard. He was uncomfortably aware of the gaps in his knowledge and was ever trying to fill them. He had just come to a particularly thorny passage when Alfred's voice invaded his thoughts.

'Sir, I understand that you take an interest in philosophy.' He had put his book down and was eagerly looking at Arthur, who sensed that a question was imminent. He shrugged.

'I have read a few books, yes, and I try to attend lectures when onshore. I have always felt the need to compensate for the many deficiencies in my schooling.' Alfred pressed on, reassured by Arthur's affirmation.

'Well, I have a question about love for you. A philosophical question.' Arthur irritably wondered what idiotic thought could have crossed the American's mind this time. Just last week he had asked whether it might one day be possible to walk on the Moon.

'If she's pregnant, Jones, then you'd best marry her.' he snapped. Alfred looked slightly hurt.

'No, that's not what I meant. I was wondering… Do you think that it is possible for a man to love another man in the same way that he loves a woman?' Arthur felt his heart drop and took a great gulp of wine to steady himself. He tried not to panic as his mind whirred in terror. Had Alfred guessed what he was? Could he be one himself? He lowered his glass to the table and put it down with a heavy clunk.

'What strange things you think about, Jones. I would suggest that you do not make a habit of raising these sorts of subjects. They are not the most suitable for dinnertime chat.' His voice, weak at first, had become stronger as he spoke. Alfred failed to notice the warning.

'But what do you think? Sir.' he persisted, adding on the 'sir' as an afterthought. Arthur decided that he might as well indulge the lad, if only to allay any suspicions that might have prompted him to ask such a question.

'Yes, I do believe that it is possible. However, I do not believe that it is either natural or right. Anyone who feels such urges should suppress them most strongly.'

'But surely if these people do not affect us then we should surely leave them alone.' Arthur felt his colour rise and when he next spoke, he was barely keeping his voice below a shout.

'Jones,' he said tightly. 'You are becoming insolent. Not only that, but your youthful ignorance is showing itself. I have never been directly affected by a murderer but that does not mean that I am content to have them running free in the streets. Just because something is possible, such as this sodomy you speak of, does not mean that it is desirable.' He stole a phrase from one of the pamphlets. 'It is an affront to God and men.'

'But sir…' Arthur jumped up from his chair.

'That is enough, Jones! I am tired of such insolence from a lieutenant only a month into his commission. You will be on double watch for the next three days. Inform the first lieutenant.'

He turned on his heel and walked out, his silver-buckled shoes clacking against the boards of the deck as he hurried to his cabin, his sanctuary. The conversation had shaken him deeply. Alfred had certainly imbibed some strange and unsettling ideas.

…

The next week, Arthur was roused from a deep and deathlike sleep by a sailor whose worried face shone in the cloudy moonlight.

'Lieutenant Jones sends his compliments, sir, and he's passing the word for you. A sail has been sighted, possibly a Frenchman, sir.' Immediately, Arthur was fully awake. He thanked and dismissed the sailor and jumped out of his hammock. He dressed in about three minutes and almost ran onto the deck. He prayed fervently that the ship, if indeed it was ship that had been seen, was one of their own. The crew were proving harder to train than he had expected and he had little faith in their skill against any ship, even one their own size – French ships were notoriously heavy-built.

He emerged into the cold night air and straightaway caught sight of Alfred, standing by the deck rail with his telescope. As soon as Arthur came up beside him, he pointed off into the distance.

'It was there, sir!' he cried out, excited at having sighted it. 'Right there!' Arthur was sceptical.

'With all due respect, Mr Jones, your eyesight leave something to be desired. Are you absolutely certain of what you saw?' Alfred nodded vigorously.

'Absolutely, sir. It was there, clear as day – a Frenchman if I'm not mistaken. Here. See what you make of it.' He handed Arthur his telescope. For a split second, their fingers brushed together. Ignoring the sparks that shot up his arm from the contact, Arthur raised the instrument to his eye. He rapidly scanned the horizon, looking for signs of life… There! The phantom billowing of an ivory sail. Its lamps were all extinguished – clearly, they did not want to be noticed. He lowered the telescope, his mouth set in a grim line.

'Damn it, Jones, you're right.' The lieutenant looked nervous.

'Should we clear for action, sir?' Arthur shook his head.

'With this wind they won't be within range until morning and I don't think they're particularly inclined to fight tonight. Their lamps are all out.' With that, he descended to his cabin, already worried about the coming morning.

…

The gunports had been opened and the great guns run out. The furniture in the officers' cabins had been taken down to the hold. Sand had been scattered on the decks to soak up the blood that would be inevitably spilled. There was nothing more to do now except wait for the enemy to come within range. Then, they would release a single warning shot and the chaos would begin, each battering away at the other until one of them could stand it no longer and their flag came fluttering down. The silence was total and deafening. Occasionally, it was broken by a murmured prayer, a growled promise to avenge the death of a fallen comrade, a few notes of a favourite shanty. These little interludes of sound never lasted long and never served to alleviate the silence any great deal.

Arthur stood on the upper deck watching the French ship steadily bear down on them. It was a 32-gunner, a four-gun advantage over _Honourable_. He looked up at the skeletal webbing of rigging up in the masts and suddenly it all seemed very insubstantial. Ludwig stood beside him, Alfred was below, ready to command the guns. A shot rang out from the enemy vessel and there was a heavy splash as the ball landed several yards short. Arthur clenched his fists, trying not to let his terror show on his face. He was adamant that they themselves would not waste so much as a musket ball until they could be certain that they would hit their target. The second shot fell much nearer than the first. The third tore a hole in the mainsail. The enemy had found the range. They would have to dispense with the warning shot. From below, he heard Alfred's muffled shout and then the rush as the sailors complied with whatever order it was. At the next command, the first broadside was released. It was ragged and could have been called shoddy but for the moment it was enough. Through the haze of smoke, Arthur saw that it had punched several holes in their enemy, who were quick to respond with a much more regimented broadside of their own.

From then on, the two ships were locked together, even their rigging entangled. They had no coherent plan, their sole aim being to inflict damage on each other. The French ship brought down _Honourable's _foremast, then _Honourable _retaliated with a hail of musket fire that wiped out several of the sailors on the upper deck. It was an inferno. Arthur felt horribly vulnerable as men fell around him, then either screamed in agony or lay too still. He wasn't sure which was worse. Men were impaled by wood splinters or obliterated by cannon balls. Limbs were blown away by shots and left lying on the deck. The injured were taken below to the surgeon but many of them were beyond help. He heard a cry from close beside him and whipped around, only to see Ludwig on his knees, hands clasped to a messy wound in his abdomen.

'My God, Beilschmidt! Is it serious?' The lieutenant tried to reply but all that came from his mouth was blood. Panicking, Arthur flagged down two passing sailors.

'You there! And you! Take this man below!' They did as they were ordered and Arthur found himself facing the dreadful onslaught alone.

….

'It's a fine weapon, sir,'

'You could kill a few frogs with that!'

'If only they were as good at fighting as making pretty things.'

It went on. The battle had ended in victory and Arthur had claimed the sword of the French captain. It was, as several sailors had remarked, an excellent piece of craftsmanship, but it come at too great a price. Of _Honourable's _250 sailors, thirty had been killed and fifty wounded. Of the remainder, twenty-five including the third of his three lieutenants had gone as a prize crew, bound for the next British port with the crew of French prisoners. Now he was alone in his cabin, a list of dead and wounded in front of him, trying to think of what to do now that his useful crew numbered only 145. Scrutinising the descriptions of the injuries, he crossed off those whose wounds were minor enough to allow them to work. There was a knock at the door.

'Is that you, Jones?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well, come in then. I must speak to you about something.' The door opened and Alfred entered, a starched white bandage around his left hand where he had been hit by a splinter of wood.

'Sir, is Lieutenant Beilschmidt dead? I saw him brought below and I tried to look for him when I was having my hand dressed but there was no sign of him.' Arthur sighed deeply.

'I'm afraid so. The surgeon did his best for him but in the end nothing could be done to stop the bleeding. Which brings me to what I meant to say to you. Sit down.' Alfred obeyed, perching nervously on the chair. 'Two things, really. Firstly, you are now the only lieutenant on board. I have appointed one of the midshipmen acting-lieutenant and he will aid you in your responsibilities to some extent. Secondly, with all your ideals about love, you will surely be able to help me. I must write a letter to this man's poor wife.'

They struggled for over an hour, neither of them knowing what to write. At one point, Arthur threw down his pen in sadness and frustration. All he had written was 'Dear Mrs Beilschmidt'.

'How do I begin?' he complained. 'No words seem quite right. A wife has lost her husband and two children have lost their father and all they get is a letter, his wages and a locket with their initials on it. This cannot be right. The man was married and had a family and yet it is he who dies. Surely, Jones, surely it is we, the unattached, who ought to die.'

…..

**Historical Note: Yes, I'm sorry for killing off Ludwig but it's kind of important that Alfred and Arthur are now the only officers on the ship. Ok, battle time: a broadside was where all the guns on one side of the ship were fired at once – something that could do a lot of damage. The battle was over when one of the ships surrendered and the captain or another officer of the victorious ship went aboard to claim the sword of the enemy captain from the most senior surviving enemy officer. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Hey guys! Sorry for the late update but I was made to take a break from writing for a bit. This chapter was partly inspired by julietgivesup, who suggested that I include a press gang, so she gets a virtual ship's biscuit (don't eat it, it's nasty!)**

….

The battle had been fought and won and now a week had gone by since Arthur had taken the sword from the battered, exhausted French captain. The men had worked tirelessly, night and day, no longer to keep the ship in fighting condition but simply to keep it afloat. Now, jury-rigged and only three days' sail from the next friendly port, Arthur had decided to let them have an evening to spend as they saw fit. The crew, no matter how rag-tag they had been at first, had more than adequately proved themselves. There was nothing like close combat to forge a sailor in the bloody furnace of war.

He stood apart from them on the quarterdeck, content to simply watch them. He still couldn't quite believe that thirty men had died. That was the sort of number you expected on a seventy-four, not a little frigate like _Honourable_. They were sorely in need of new recruits, though these were difficult to obtain. Arthur's eye was drawn to where Alfred was holding court around a group of sailors, telling a loud and probably totally inappropriate story. His face was lit with the pure and uncorrupted joy that came from being accepted by others and his cheeks were a little flushed from the rum which had been flowing freely all evening. Arthur couldn't bring himself to reprimand him for fraternising with the lower ranks. It would cast a pall over the evening and besides, the lad wasn't doing any harm. The bandage was already off his hand but the slight wound had left a small scar that he was currently showing off. Arthur felt an irrational longing to have someone to talk to. But that was impossible. He didn't dare form a bond of even innocent friendship with any man for fear of where it might lead.

One of the sailors talking to Alfred suddenly rose, violin and bow in hand. He bent and said something to Alfred, who smiled and stood up too. Arthur frowned slightly. What was going on? He hoped that the lieutenant wasn't going to humiliate himself completely by performing some sort of dance. However, when the violinist began to play, Arthur involuntarily felt a shiver running down his spine. He knew that song. It wasn't one of the sailors' ballads. It was something he had once heard while sitting at the back of the church, hardly daring to look at the tortured face of Jesus on the cross, hardly feeling worthy of the life that Jesus had died to preserve. He had spent so many hours cowering in pews, waiting for hellfire and damnation to rain down on him while silently and secretly hoping to be offered salvation. It was all he could do not to let a tear slip out. Then Alfred began to sing in a rich, pure countertenor voice and Arthur had to press a hand against his chest to stop himself from gasping. The music brought all his worst feelings back to haunt him.

_He was despised, despised and rejected_

_A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief_

Was it just his imagination, or was Alfred looking straight at him as he sang those words? And what was that expression? Could it be… understanding? But Alfred had no idea what he was and never would. A combination of coincidence and wishful thinking, that was all. He had been overwrought since the battle and he was tired, that was what was making him so emotional this evening. Over the course of the song, the men left off their own games and conversations and turned towards Alfred, the Sun at their centre. Some of them wiped away tears as they remembered the friends they had so recently lost. A few of the better-educated among them were able to hum along. And when it was over, Alfred dropped his head for a moment or two then raised it again, his glorious smile back in place. And Arthur caught his eye and returned the smile with a small one of his own, to tell him that he had heard and enjoyed.

…..

'As you know, Jones, our complement is severely reduced. We will need to recruit while in port but we cannot fill our books that way, and so we will have to resort to… other methods.' Alfred, sitting across from Arthur at his desk as they pored over the muster book, understood the subtext immediately.

'The press gang,' he said softly, a look of horror creeping over his features. 'But sir, it is…' Arthur sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

'Barbaric, yes, I know. But we truly have no choice. Even with a refit, our abilities will be seriously stretched. I admire your humanity but you must put it aside for the moment. It will do you no good in this situation.' Alfred looked even more downcast but he had learnt not to argue. 'Jones,' Arthur continued. 'We have argued before. I do not wish for us to do so again. You are now the only lieutenant and as such it is absolutely vital that you and I act in concert. You may not like the things we are obliged to do, but do them we must.' His head was throbbing. He pulled a bottle of wine from under his desk. 'Have a drink.'

'Sir, I…' Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.

'Just take a glass, Jones. God knows we both need one.' Alfred acquiesced and allowed Arthur to pour him a few drops. The captain raised his glass in a bitter toast.

'A sickly season and a bloody war. We've had one, pray God we'll be spared the other.' Then he began to cry. 'Pray God indeed! What's he ever done for us?' Suddenly, he wanted to be alone. 'Leave me now, Jones.'

'But sir, I thought you…'

'Go! I'll talk to you later.' As soon as Alfred had gone, he laid his head on his desk and stared unseeingly at the pattern of the wood, listening to the hollow rushing of blood in his ears. His heart was racing. He could never bear to be near the man for long. It was almost as if some cruel deity had crafted him to be irresistible then placed him on Earth to tempt men like Arthur.

….

The merchant ship sat low in the water, heavy with its cargo of sugar. The sails were filled with the brisk trade winds as it moved at a stately pace in the direction of England, and home. On the deck of _Honourable,_ the atmosphere was one of tense excitement. The boarding party, armed with pistols and cutlasses, stood ready to attack. Arthur held a speaking trumpet, through which to shout his demands at the merchant captain. Normally, a lieutenant would take this job but Arthur didn't trust Alfred to do something so fundamentally against his nature, and so he was taking responsibility himself. On Arthur's signal, _Honourable _turned sharply, so that it was bearing down on the merchantman. He raised the speaking trumpet to his lips.

'You there! Heave to!' he ordered. He was obeyed. The ship turned agonisingly slowly, until it had come to a near-complete stop. The captain didn't seem to want to put up much resistance and Arthur soon realised the reason – the ship was in absolute tatters. 'How many men do you have aboard?' he yelled. 'Is there sickness in your ship?'

'One hundred and twelve, and we have no sickness.' came the reply. The captain had a foreign accent, one Arthur couldn't quite place.

'We wish to come aboard in order to press men for His Majesty's Service.' As expected, the captain didn't refuse and the boarding party climbed into the ship's boat to be rowed over. Once on the deck of the merchantman, Arthur came face to face with the captain. He had tanned skin and dark brown hair but his eyes were an unexpected bright green.

'Captain Kirkland, of His Majesty's ship _Honourable_,' he said shortly, by way of introduction.

'Captain Carriedo, of the merchantman _Tomate_.'

'A Spaniard, then? A strange name for your ship. And she's in a sorry state. What on earth happened?' The man shrugged and made some reply about a storm. Soon, he and Arthur were lost in naval men's chatter, each glad to have found someone who understood the difficulties of command. Eventually, however, the time came for Arthur to make his demands.

'We have lost fifty-five men to battle and the prize crew. I wish I did not have to extort in this way, but we need replacements for them.' The Spanish captain grimaced.

'As you see, sir, _Tomate _is also in poor condition. I can only spare five men.' This was disappointing, and the heavily-armed boarding party began to look a little more threatening. Arthur felt his blood rising.

'Damn it, I need more than that. Surely you can give us ten? If not, maybe a full broadside will convince you to part with them.' Carriedo was furious.

'Who are you, some sort of pirate? I will give you five, and good luck licking them into shape. These men have not been ashore in two years. They will not take kindly to being kept longer from their home.' The two captains glared at each other, breathing heavily, faces set into similar expressions of cold imperiousness. The rattling of weapons increased in volume.

'Ten, or we'll blast you to matchwood.' Arthur's voice was quiet but his sincerity was beyond doubt. His hand went to his sword, as did that of the merchant captain. 'Do not forget that my sovereign duty comes before your profits, merchantman.'

'Five!' Arthur gestured to the weapons party.

'I will give you one chance, Carriedo.' The Spaniard looked helplessly from one threat to the other, then reluctantly submitted.

'Very well. Ten.'

…..

Arthur didn't know the port well. That was it. That was the reason why he had accidentally gone down this street, the street with one of those awful places on it. For a moment, he was seventeen again, shrouding his midshipman's uniform under a cloak and pausing wistfully outside, moments away from a place where he could find acceptance of a sort. But he was twenty-three now. He was old enough to contain his desires. An innocent mistake had brought him here and a pure mind would bring him out of it. He stepped quickly, hoping to escape the notice of any of the mollies, the young men who hung about the place.

'Fancy a quick tumble?' a male voice called out. He glanced up to see a young man leaning against the doorway of that house of sin, a bottle hanging from one hand, the other raised above his head in a calculatedly attractive position.

'I'm not like you!' Arthur replied, careful to shield his face. The man scoffed.

'That's what they all say at first. Come and see a few of our boys and I guarantee you'll be saying the opposite by the end of the night.'

'I'm not!' he repeated, a little more vehemently. The man's voice took on a mocking tone.

'All right, all right. Don't be ashamed. We're all going to Hell, us sodomites, so we might as well take our pleasure while we may. Come in – we're used to seeing you naval men. There's no twenty-ninth article on land!'

Arthur had to stop himself from running. The man had seen his soul and left him feeling naked and vulnerable. As he passed by the place, music and rowdy masculine voices spilled from inside. He almost stopped dead as he heard a familiar laugh rising above the clamour, then collected himself and walked on. A coincidence or figment of his febrile imagination, nothing more. He sighed. He was desperate for a drink.

….

Arthur's hand lingered over the tantalising glass of wine, his third. He desperately wanted to drink enough to thoroughly drown out his experience outside the house of sodomites but as captain he had to remain sober. He pushed the glass away. The bar was crowded and noisy with sailors pleased to have a few days' leisure, but mercifully he recognised no-one from his own ship. Without meaning to, he found himself thinking about Alfred and grimly realised that another glass might not have been such a bad idea. The lad had been so upset about the press gang two days ago but he seemed to have recovered by now. Arthur was grateful for his human touch in dealing with the new men, none of whom, as the merchant captain had warned him, were particularly happy about their new position. He predicted some disciplinary problems ahead. Furthermore, that day, twelve men had volunteered of their own accord. There were the usual malcontents who had prices on their heads or some such but there were also good, strong men willing to work. The yellow fever had struck particularly badly that summer and not a single lieutenant was available. He would have to make to with Alfred for the moment.

The door opened and he looked up in surprise as Alfred walked in and went over to him. Arthur appraised him critically.

'Fancy seeing you here, Jones.' He took in the lamentable state of the man's uniform. 'You look somewhat… dishevelled. Where were you? Paying a visit to someone?' Alfred blushed and his hand immediately went to the crumpled stock about his throat and his incorrectly-buttoned waistcoat. He struggled to form a reply and Arthur decided to let him off.

'Never mind. What will you have? I don't want this wine, if you're interested.' He pushed the glass towards Alfred and as he took it from him their hands accidentally touched. For a split second, their fingers interlocked. Arthur's cheeks flamed and he averted his eyes as soon as they had disentangled themselves.

'Thank you,' Alfred said brightly, seemingly untouched by Arthur's embarrassment. Arthur stole a glance at him, then realised the change in him.

'I see you took my advice about the spectacles. How do you like them?' Alfred grinned.

'Excellent! I can finally recognise people. And I like not tripping over things every few yards.' Arthur smiled slightly.

'Glad to hear it. They look well on you.' Damn. Well, too late to retract the compliment now. Hopefully, Alfred wouldn't read too far into it.

….

_Dear Mother and Father,_

_Thank you for your letter. I do not know whether you have heard by now, but we were involved in an engagement a little over a week ago. I was unhurt but tragically we lost Lieutenant Beilschmidt. It was a victory, but a pyrrhic one. Now Lieutenant Jones and I are the only commissioned officers on board, but we have so far had no trouble from the new pressed men._

He paused then, setting his pen down for a moment and closing his eyes against the pain of his recurrent headache. He didn't want to write the next part of the letter but knew that this was his only chance to make himself worthy in their eyes.

_With regards to your mention of Miss Westerly, I have decided that it is high time I found a wife. I now feel that I am recovered from my troublesome disease and am ready to pursue marriage. Do pass on my regards to her and inform her that I would be interested in corresponding with her, should she and her father wish it._

_Your Affectionate Son,_

_Arthur_

There. It was written. His decision was set down in ink. He prayed that he truly would be able to find happiness with a woman and if not happiness then at least contentment. His encounter with the man had unsettled him. He had teased him, encouraged him to indulge his desires in a place where he would not be judged for it. For a man like Arthur, trained to follow the letter of the law in even the most extreme situation, self-control and obedience were paramount. He would resist until his dying day. He pressed his hands together and tried to force himself to pray even though it had ceased being heartfelt and become ritual around the time he had fallen for Francis. If there was a God out there, he certainly wouldn't have any patience or pity for a sinner like Arthur. Hopefully, a wife and inevitable brood of children would be enough to distract him, maybe even change him.

He stood up abruptly, jolted from his melancholy reverie by the sounds of shouting on the gundeck. He paused for a second to rest his cool hand against his forehead. He should have known that the pressed men would be more trouble than they were worth. Feeling far older and more exhausted than he was, he went to see what the matter was.

A brawl had broken out between about six of the men. Alfred was standing on the fringes, among a crowd of gawking sailors, trying ineffectually to persuade them to stop.

'Alright, lads, alright…'

'Come now, there's nothing to be gained from fighting in this way…' None of them paid him the slightest bit of attention and no wonder – the lieutenant was hardly even raising his voice. Arthur was exasperated.

'Porterhouse! Clostermann! What's the issue here?' Two of the fighting men looked up, ashamed to have been caught.

'These new men here, they were insulting the lieutenant.' one of them gruffly explained. Arthur raised an eyebrow.

'I'm sure he could have dealt with it himself, Porterhouse.' The sailor shook his head.

'Oh no sir, he wasn't there. We thought we'd best teach these men to show a bit of respect to their officers.'

'What did they say that was so dreadful? Although I'm not quite sure I want to hear it.' The two men looked at each other, neither one willing to utter the dreaded three syllables.

'They called him a sodomite,' they eventually said in unison. One of the pressed men who had been involved spoke up.

'I spoke nothing but the truth! I saw him…' Alfred seemed suddenly to have recovered the power of command.

'Silence, you! Bosun, clap these men in irons!' He looked fleetingly at Arthur to make sure that he had not gone beyond his authority. Arthur nodded imperceptibly, telling him he was doing well, then took over.

'Thirty lashes for each of these men for fighting – that includes Porterhouse and Clostermann – and an extra ten for the one who spoke just now, for insolence. Punishment at eleven tomorrow morning.' It pained him to punish men whose intentions were pure but all fighting had to be dealt with severely. A divided crew was one that functioned badly in battle.

He returned to his cabin without a further word, a persistent thought running through his mind. What exactly had the pressed man seen?

…..

**Historical Note: The song Alfred sings is a real one – 'He was Despised', from Handel's Messiah. I was originally going to have him sing a different song but I was listening to this one while writing the opening scene and it seemed to fit perfectly. Pressing men – ie, forcing them into the Navy – was fairly common but contrary to popular belief they took only experienced sailors where possible. They could be taken off the streets in port towns or, as in the story, taken from merchant ships. The 'twenty-ninth article' mentioned was the specific rule in the Navy that banned homosexuality. Word for word, it was: '****If any Person in the Fleet shall commit the unnatural and detestable Sin of Buggery or Sodomy with Man or Beast, he shall be punished with Death by the Sentence of a Court Martial.' The punishment of flogging meted out to the men at the end of the chapter was the most common form of discipline, although thirty was a high number – Arthur punishes them severely because their particular choice of insult hit him hard.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Warning: A flogging scene at the beginning of the chapter – nothing too terrible, just a bit of violence.**

….

'If any person in the fleet shall quarrel or fight with any other person in the fleet, or use reproachful or provoking speeches or gestures, tending to make any quarrel or disturbance, he shall, upon being convicted thereof, suffer such punishment as the offence shall deserve.'

Arthur finished reading out the twenty-third Article of War and slammed the cover of the book down with a heavy thud. He surveyed the assembled crew, all brought on deck to witness the punishment of their comrades and hoped that the flogging would serve as an example to them, in particular the new men. He himself was standing on the elevated quarterdeck, Alfred beside him. The American had clasped his hands together and looked deeply uncomfortable about the whole thing. Behind his new glasses, his eyes were troubled. Arthur ignored him. There was no room for sentimentality in the masculine world of a fighting ship. There came six slow chimes of the ship's bell, signalling that it was now eleven o'clock. He nodded to the bosun's mates and the first of the miscreants was brought forward, the man who had made such troubling allegations about Alfred. The punishment had an air of ritual to it, one consciously designed to discourage the others from being tempted to break the rules themselves. The sailor's shirt was torn from him and he was tied by his wrists and ankles to the grating. He stared defiantly at Alfred and Arthur and Arthur stared back, adorning his features with a hard frown of command. The cat-o'-nine-tails, the fearsome nine-stranded whip, was removed from the bag and the bosun gave it a few experimental cracks. Everything was in order.

Crack!

Alfred flinched at the clean sound of the rope against unbroken skin. Arthur was unmoved. He had to be. A captain could not afford to allow his personal thoughts to interfere with his duty. The second lash came, then the third, then the fourth. After the tenth, there was a brief respite as the whip was passed from one man to another then, on the eleventh, the man was hit once again with full force. Each lash now made a wet sound as it connected with the bloodied, lacerated flesh. On the fifteenth, he cried out. For a moment, Arthur was thirteen again, kneeling on the floor of his father's study as he beat every sinful thought out of him with his stout cane. He remembered vainly trying to shield himself against the ceaseless, stinging blows and then studying the patchwork of bruises on his skin in the mirror when it was all over. He remembered how the tears of pain mingled with those of shame and misery. He remembered how he had deserved it all. On the twenty-fifth, the man flopped limply like a ragdoll, knocked unconscious by the pain. Alfred let out a stifled sound of horror and suddenly and irrationally Arthur found himself wanting to please him.

'Stop!' Arthur called out. 'This man has been punished enough. I doubt that he will repeat his offence. Take him below.' Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alfred give a tiny, fleeting smile. The next two men were made of sterner stuff and endured their flogging without a sound. The remaining three managed to retain consciousness but screamed all the way through, straining at their bindings in a desperate bid to escape. Alfred stood firm but Arthur noticed that his whole body was trembling and his face was white. The moment the crew was dismissed, he disappeared below.

'Jones? Jones! Where are you?' He stopped dead, his hand on the knob of the wardroom door as he detected muffled sobbing from inside. He pushed it open, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Alfred was lying stretched out along the window seat, his shoes kicked off, crying into his sleeve. Arthur was shocked. 'Jones? What on Earth is the matter?' He had intended to sound comforting but only succeeded in terrifying the lad, who sat bolt upright, contrition written all over his face.

'I'm so sorry sir, I…' Arthur shook his head, cutting him off, and sat down beside him.

'Don't worry on it. It's never a pleasant sight. But come, surely you're used to floggings?' Alfred examined his nails. Eventually, he said,

'My father began to beat me after our dispute. All through my childhood he never once laid a hand on me. Then, when we had fought, he attacked me at the slightest provocation. Seeing those men today reminded me of my own past.' There it was again, the problem with his father.

'My father was the same. But you cannot let what you see upset you in this way. These men are merciless – any sign of weakness from you and they will strike.' He sighed deeply, about to admit his insecurities. 'They are the hardest crew I have ever had to deal with. I am beginning to think that it was a mistake to press those men. That Spaniard, damn him to Hell, may have been right.' Alfred bit his lip, his tears forgotten.

'Surely you are not suggesting that there may be a mutiny, sir?' he asked in a strained, nervous voice. Arthur's face took on an expression of despair.

'I cannot say. I believe that enough of the men are loyal to prevent such a thing but the fact remains that they are surely in want of proper authority. There should be two more lieutenants and the midshipmen are but children. We will have to tread carefully.'

…

The tune was more difficult than Arthur remembered it and he set down his flute in frustration. He scrutinised the music score, scowling at the cluster of notes that was causing him trouble. He didn't practise enough, that was the problem. It was a shame, since _Dance of the Blessed Spirits _was one of his favourite pieces. Music was one of the few things that could soothe his constant emotional pain and make his mind pleasingly blank for the few minutes it took to play something through. What was more, his interest as to what had caused Alfred to argue with his father was piqued once again. Frowning at his own intrusiveness, he picked up the instrument again and began to play. He was doing well when he came to a page turn. The thick paper required some fiddling with to get it to the desired place and by then his delicate trance had been broken. In his irritation, he was surprised to hear Alfred coming in, yet another leather-bound novel in hand. He had his usual charming smile fixed firmly in place.

'Oh no sir, don't stop playing for my sake! I was enjoying the music.' Arthur was still annoyed.

'I wasn't stopping for you, Jones. It's just that it's simply impossible to turn these damned pages without breaking the flow.' Alfred nodded sympathetically.

'I understand. I play the pianoforte, though I couldn't very well bring one with me.' He gave a wry smile. 'At least my voice is portable.' Arthur wasn't in the mood for jokes.

'Indeed. Well, I must be getting back to my practice,' he said dismissively.

'I could be your page-turner, sir. I can read music, after all.' Arthur was flustered and fought to retain his composure.

'What? I, ah… Well, that's very kind of you, Jones, if you're sure it's no trouble.'

'None at all, sir.'

Read the music, Arthur, he thought to himself. Concentrate on that, not him. But Alfred was standing so close to him, pinching the edge of the page between finger and thumb, his sparkling blue eyes following the score as Arthur played. His boisterous smile had been replaced by a more thoughtful one, and he hummed along during a couple of passages. Arthur felt dizzy in his intoxicating presence. His heart sped up and all at once he lost the rhythm and took the flute from his mouth with a deep sigh of frustration.

'Lost my place there,' he lied. Alfred looked unaccountably guilty.

'Was it my singing that did it, sir?' It was such a ludicrous suggestion that Arthur laughed out loud.

'No, no, I just wasn't paying attention. You have an excellent voice, Jones.'

'Thank you, sir. Shall we try again?'

'Yes, I think we should.' In Arthur's mind, he was playing for Alfred, and Alfred was singing for him. He refused to allow himself to look up from the music, refused to allow anything to interfere with the precise indications of speed and rhythm. He let himself feel the calming joy of music and this time he did not make a single mistake. When he finished, he felt the heat begin to rise in his cheeks and tried vainly to quell it. Alfred wasn't helping, not with the way he was still singing, although he had moved onto another tune, not with the way his sandy hair made his tanned skin appear to glow and certainly not with the way he was unbearably, irresistibly close, close enough to touch.

'That was beautiful, it truly was,' No, no, Arthur thought, stop talking. Every word out of Alfred made sparks run through his body. He was hopelessly torn between dismissing him before he did something ill-considered and spending more time with him. In the end, the decision was made for him. 'Sir,' Alfred said shyly. 'I wonder if you might know this song. I've been humming it for days but I'm damned if I remember its name.'

'Well, sing it for me and I'll see if I can think of it,' Arthur replied, forcing himself not to grin like an idiot at the prospect of more music. Alfred obeyed and Arthur found that he did indeed recognise it.

'Ah! That's _Lascia ch'io Pianga_. A glorious piece. Do you know the words?' Alfred shook his head.

'I didn't realise there were any, sir,' he replied, somewhat embarrassed.

'Really? And you a singer!' Arthur chided, but he was only teasing. 'Now you mention it, come to think of it, I may have the music sheets. I don't know the lyrics myself. They're all in Italian. Something about anguish and cruelty and liberty or some such, leaving one to one's misery and all that.' He knelt to rummage in his music case, looking for the desired score. He could feel Alfred's eyes on his back and the knowledge that he was being observed made him clumsy and he dropped the papers in a messy pile. Ever solicitous, Alfred rushed to help.

'Are these in any sort of order, sir?' he asked, kneeling beside him. Arthur shook his head, steadfastly avoiding looking up and meeting those alluring blue eyes. He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat and focused on breathing. But Alfred was so close beside him as they worked to pick up all the pieces of paper together. They reached for the same one and their hands accidentally touched yet again and this time it seemed to Arthur that Alfred let go a little less promptly than might be expected. That was three times, he thought to himself: first the telescope, then the wineglass, now this. Surely it couldn't completely be coincidence?

'Here it is!' he exclaimed far too brightly, relieved to have found the song and to be able to change the subject. 'Shall we have a go?' They stood up, each equally excited.

'I don't know the notes, sir, so I'll need to read over your shoulder.' Alfred warned.

'Very well, Jones. Do as you like.' They took up their positions, then Arthur raised his flute to his lips and began to play the introduction, trying to shut out Alfred. The man was so close that he could feel the warmth and movement of his breathing, hear the minute rustle of his clothing as he shifted position an inch or two and smell the vague sharpness of his shaving balm. He was acutely aware that a great stillness had come over them both as they silently counted the beats to Alfred's entry. Behind him, Arthur heard an intake of breath, and then the singing started. The song lasted only few minutes but it felt like much longer. Voice and flute complemented each other, never dominating, in full and perfect harmony. Alfred's proximity to him sent delicious shivers through him and his singing made his face break into a rare smile. His hands were slippery with nervous perspiration and he struggled to maintain his tight hold on the instrument. When it was over, he was relieved.

'Thank you for playing for me, sir,' Alfred said a little shyly, adjusting his glasses. 'I very much enjoyed it.'

'Oh, it was no trouble, Jones. Will you join me for a glass?' He didn't know what rash impulse it was that was driving him to be so friendly – perhaps too friendly – but he was powerless to resist it. Alfred shook his head.

'No thank you sir. I'm taking the middle watch, so I'd best be off to bed. See if I can snatch a moment's rest.'

'Goodnight then, Jones.' Arthur replied, feeling unaccountably disappointed.

'Goodnight, sir.'

…

Arthur sat bolt upright, setting his hammock swinging madly as he woke from a troubling dream. He closed his eyes and scrunched up his face, trying to recall a few shreds of it before they all scattered. He had a faint inkling that it might have concerned himself and Alfred. Sighing, he pushed a few strands of hair back from his face. The evening had been a mistake. They should never have spent all that time together, no matter how pleasant it had been to share his love of music with someone. He was becoming dangerously besotted with the man, even though he knew full well that no good could ever come of it. Lately, however, he had noted the beginnings of a reckless streak in himself, ignited by the man outside the house of sodomites. It told him to stop denying himself this most natural of human pleasures but had to fight for control with his far more deep-seated conservatism. Inculcated in him from the age of thirteen, it was this that told him that there was nothing natural about this pleasure he sought and that the only honour that could be salvaged from this state of affairs would come from the utter suppression of his love of men.

He sat up a little straighter and hissed out a swearword under his breath. In his head, a melody was slowly unspooling, a sweet, slow song with lyrics that were a little too apt. _Let me weep for my cruel fate_. That was it, that was what he had been trying to remember. He couldn't believe he'd ever forgotten it. Another thought came to him. He wanted, for good or ill, to know whether all these apparently innocuous touches of their hands had in fact been somehow orchestrated. If so, two could certainly play at that game. He so desperately wanted to be right in his suspicions that Alfred had taken some sort of interest in him and yet he was still so desperately riven with doubts and self-loathing. He felt tears welling up and defiantly shut his eyes, unwilling to let a single one spill out. Crying helped nothing. What was it his father had said to him, his sermon punctuated by strokes of the cane?

'_Father! Please, stop! I beg you!' _

'_Stop your crying, boy! Crying is for sodomites. I'll have no son of mine weeping into his perfumed handkerchief and blotting his face powder.'_

'_I'm not one of them, I'm not! I swear it!' His father's face had contorted with rage then._

'_Don't lie to me, you little molly! I've seen the way you look at them. They may be going to Hell, but I'm damned if they'll take any son of mine with them.' The beating had stopped, and Arthur had taken the chance to climb stiffly to his feet, wincing with the stinging that would soon subside to aching. _

'_I am sorry, father,' he had said as he always did when one of these beatings came to an end. His father had reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder._

'_Let this be an end to it, lad,' he had said with uncharacteristic gentleness. 'I have received a letter from your cousin, the naval captain. He will take you as a midshipman on his ship. You'll be in the Navy, my boy, away from all these… influences.'_

Arthur laughed bitterly to himself. How well that had worked.

…

'Jones!' Arthur sharply rapped his knife against the table. Alfred, it seemed, was half asleep after being on watch through most of the night.

'Sorry, sir,' he muttered, breaking off to yawn. 'Damned middle watch… And the men not much better.' Arthur rolled his eyes.

'You're completely incoherent this morning. Sometimes I struggle to believe that you have spent six years in the Navy. You must be used to little sleep by now.'

'I know, sir, but I had no sleep at all last night. I had a succession of strange dreams and woke not the least bit rested.' Arthur saw his chance.

'Indeed? What sort of dreams?' Alfred blushed vividly.

'Ah… N-Nothing of any great c-consequence,' he stuttered. 'In fact, I believe I've forgotten them entirely.' Arthur didn't believe him for a second.

'Very well. Try to sleep tonight then.' From there, the conversation tailed off into companionable silence, abruptly broken a few minutes later by the sounds of a scuffle outside the wardroom. Arthur stood up immediately and went to see what the matter was.

On opening the door, he was confronted by the strange sight of a sailor, one of the pressed men, being held by the scruff of the neck by a marine.

'This man here tried to force entry, sir. He demands to speak to you in private.' Arthur was suddenly very tired.

'Now listen here,' he said firmly, addressing the pressed man. 'If this is about that friend of yours who was flogged yesterday, I do not wish to hear it. He deserved his punishment and in fact was spared fifteen lashes.' The man truculently met his eye.

'It is not, sir. But I must speak to you on a matter of great importance.' Arthur knew that he had best give the man what he wanted.

'Very well. I will give you five minutes of my time, but if I do not consider this to be worthwhile then you will suffer for it.'

'Oh no sir,' came the insolent reply. 'I think you'll find it very worthwhile indeed.'

….

Once they were seated at his desk, Arthur began the meeting, his mind already on what else he could be doing with his valuable time.

'Alright, tell me what it is and make it quick.' he ordered, most of his attention on the pile of letters that needed answering and the navigation lesson he was supposed to be giving to the midshipmen later.

'It concerns Lieutenant Jones.' Suddenly, he was listening.

'What about him? Has he treated you unfairly?' The man shook his head.

'Worse than that sir,' he responded. Arthur sensed that he was prevaricating for dramatic effect.

'Damn it, man, spit it out!' he snapped.

'Lieutenant Jones,' the sailor repeated salaciously, 'is a sodomite.'

Arthur stood up, his most threatening expression on his face.

'How dare you slander a commissioned officer in such a manner,' he hissed through clenched teeth. 'You do not, I daresay, have so much as a modicum of evidence to support this baseless rumour.' The man grinned, revealing brownish, tobacco-stained teeth.

'Ah well now sir, you see, me and me mates, we were going to find us some honest amusement in town the other evening when we saw the lieutenant. Well, we were understandably shocked when we saw exactly where he was on his way to, for it _transpired_' – he emphasised the deliberately formal word – 'that he was not seeking a simple tankard at all, for we did spy him going into…' – another pause – 'the molly house.' Arthur struggled not to show his shock on his face. He needed to be composed.

'I do not believe that for a second. Go now, and count yourself lucky that you have escaped a flogging for making such vile accusations.' The man's look of triumph as he exited unsettled him deeply and he sat down again, fervently praying that it really was a lie and that Alfred had not really been that indiscreet. If it was true, Arthur feared for the lad's life.

**Historical Note: Ok, not a great deal to write. The flogging scene was as accurate as my knowledge permits. The music mentioned is, as always, recommended. The middle watch that Alfred doesn't want to do was a particularly nasty shift that ran from midnight to four in the morning. Hope you enjoyed the chapter!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Ok guys, I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear that there will be some illegal stuffs in this chapter and that the twenty-ninth article will finally be broken! Thanks as always for reading, favouriting, following and reviewing! Also, this is not the end of the story in case the end of this chapter has you thinking otherwise (you'll see what I mean).**

_Dear Miss Westerly,_

_I thank you most sincerely for agreeing to correspond with me and I hope that you find our communication enjoyable. The life of a sailor can be a lonely one but I am certain that your letters will bring me…_

Arthur dropped his pen in frustration. He couldn't write to her, couldn't tell her things he knew to be untrue. Lying to himself was one thing, lying to someone else was quite another. He sighed to himself and wondered where Alfred was. He'd received yet another unkind letter from his father and sunk into a black mood for the whole day. It was now evening and Arthur was eager to put his plan into action. If the sailor's story was true, and he feared it was, then he had a good chance with Alfred. For the first time, he had not read the pamphlets that his mother had included in her letter. They couldn't tell him anything he hadn't been told already a thousand times. He was beginning to worry about Alfred but forced himself to return to the task at hand. It was his duty to write, and whatever pleasure he gained or did not gain from it was immaterial.

'Sir?' Arthur almost jumped out of his chair. Alfred had come up behind him without him even noticing.

'Good Lord, Jones! Didn't hear you there. I've not seen you all day. Are you certain all is well?' Alfred wasn't paying attention, reading as he was Arthur's hardly-begun letter.

'Is this to your sweetheart, sir?' he asked in a voice that Arthur could have sworn was tinged with disappointment. With a little start, he realised that this was his chance.

'Oh no, not at all. She's just a girl my parents would have me marry. I've never taken the slightest interest in women.' Alfred nodded.

'I'm the same myself, sir.' he replied softly. The ensuing silence was crowded with unspoken ideas, incomplete thoughts.

'Sit down, Jones,' Arthur said at length. 'There is something rather important that I need to ask you about.' Alfred obeyed. His eyes were fearful.

Arthur felt uncomfortably hot and thought wryly of when he had so severely reprimanded Alfred for taking his coat off on duty. But now he felt the clammy sting of his shirt sticking to his back and peeled off the bulky woollen garment. Alfred waited a few moments, then followed suit. His shirt was just as translucent as always, Arthur noted. He cleared his throat, preparing himself.

'Jones,' he began. His voice sounded weak and he tried again. 'Jones,' he repeated, with greater strength. 'You recall that sailor yesterday, the one who wished to speak to me?' Alfred inclined his head slightly.

'I do, sir,'

'Oh, you don't have to tack on 'sir' at the end of every sentence. You make no secret that you dislike doing so. And when there are only two officers, certain… formalities can be dispensed with.' He was playing for time.

'The sailor?' Alfred prompted.

'Ah, yes. Well, Jones, I do not believe what he said to me but I think you should hear it, since it concerned you.' He said this kindly but Alfred turned white and dropped his gaze to the table.

'What did he say?' His voice was high and nervous and he wrapped his arms around himself. Arthur wanted to hold his hand.

'He said… That he, and some others including the one who was flogged, saw you in town the other evening. He said that he saw you going into a molly house. I must know if this is true.' He affixed his most accommodating expression to his face. Alfred looked about to cry.

'No, no, I never would, sir, I promise you!' He sniffed and wiped his eyes. Arthur felt ashamed for frightening him in such a way, belatedly remembering what he had previously said on the subject of sodomy.

'Jones, if this is true, I can assure you that your secret will be safe. You have nothing to fear from me. But you would do well to be a little more discreet. You may go.'

'Thank you,' Alfred whispered as he got up. 'Thank you.' The door clicked behind him, leaving Arthur to his thoughts. At least now he was certain that Alfred's tastes ran to the same things as his. No, he chastised himself, just because Alfred was interested in men did not mean that he would be interested in him. He still had work to do.

…..

Dinner was a subdued affair. Neither of them knew quite what to say to each other after Alfred's revelation. Arthur saw the fear in his eyes and it hurt him to know that the lad still worried that he would report him. There was only one punishment for sodomy: death. Around them, the whisper of the waves stretched for miles as the ship slowly wove through archipelagos of scattered islands, borne on the warm West Indian winds. They looked everywhere but at each other and Arthur suddenly found that his breathing was irritatingly loud in his ears. Alfred reached for the salt. So did Arthur, deliberately this time. Their hands touched, as they so often did, and he looked up to gauge Alfred's reaction.

'Sir?' he asked, an ambiguous look on his face. Arthur smiled reassuringly.

'My mistake, Jones. You may use it first.' He realised that they were still linked and slowly relinquished his hold. Suddenly, he was no longer hungry – in fact, he felt a little nauseous. He rose, Alfred's inquisitive eyes boring into him.

'Is something wrong, sir?'

'No, I simply do not wish to eat any more. I thought I might play my flute, if you wish to join me.' Alfred smiled apprehensively. Arthur wondered if he thought it was some sort of trap.

'I will sir. Might we sing that song again?'

Alfred sang beautifully, almost fit to make Arthur cry. He forced his pounding heart to slow down until it moved at the same stately rhythm as the music. He had never before experienced this joy at being in someone's presence. He had had youthful crushes, tempered by fear and shame, as short-lived as they had been intense. There had of course been Francis, but, looking back, he saw that he had been young and passionate. He was a little older now, a little more level-headed, and it was for this reason that he knew his attraction to Alfred ran deeper than any other. In the silence following the slow, sustained death of the last note, Arthur heard a sniff behind him. He turned to the source of the noise.

'Jones? Please tell me what the matter is. You have been in bad humour all day.' Alfred fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief.

'I have sinned.' The words, with their biblical ring, made Arthur remember hours cramped into confessional boxes that smelled of others' sweat and shame, clicking rosary beads, each one a prayer to save his impure soul as he recounted every time he had ever looked at a man.

'So have we all,' he replied, trying to make light of it.

'That sailor told the truth.'

'I thought as much. But if you are properly repentant then you will be forgiven. Do not worry on it.' Alfred persisted, apparently desperate to confide in someone.

'There is more than that. I have… desired one whom I should not. One whose name I do not even know.' And in his face, Arthur saw the truth, and it frightened him. 'And what is worse is that I do not feel an ounce of shame for it.' Alfred continued.

'My name is Arthur,' he whispered, feeling as though he was breaking some sort of spell. Alfred's face broke into a smile.

'Then at last I can put a name to a face.' Slowly, as though expecting to burst into flames, he raised a hesitant hand to Arthur's own so that their fingers were loosely interlocked. And Arthur, who had been filled with such hope and conviction that he was perhaps not damned, felt doubts invading his mind. He looked down at the floor.

'This is wrong,' he muttered, no longer sure whether he truly believed it or not.

'How can this be wrong?' Alfred demanded, suddenly angry. 'How can my love for you be wrong?' Arthur squirmed out of Alfred's grip, face flushed and heart pounding. He couldn't believe that, just moments before, he had been ready to surrender to his basest urges.

'It's ungodly. It's against all the laws of nature. It's repulsive.' Alfred's look of anger darkened.

'So we are ungodly, unnatural. Do I repulse you? Do you repulse yourself?' He reached out and placed a hand on Arthur's wrist, his face softening. 'There is nothing wrong with the way I love you and if I am damned for it then let me be so.' He looked hopefully at Arthur, who vehemently shook his head.

'Stop this. If we are caught, we will die.' Alfred tightened his hold in response.

'Do you not want this?' he entreated, his voice breathless and urgent. Arthur exhaled heavily.

'I do, but I shouldn't,' he confessed. Alfred moved his hand to his waist.

'Forget about what you 'should' do and just do what you want.' He closed his eyes for a second, an anguished look passing over his face. 'You're so frustrating and yet so irresistible.' Slowly, he raised his free hand to Arthur's cheek. The air was charged. Their eyes met and Arthur felt his reserve inexorably melting. He bit his lip and looked off to the side, scared to want what he was on the verge of getting.

'What are you doing?' he asked, sounding terrified. Alfred gave a shy little smile.

'Are my intentions not clear? I want to kiss you.' He broke off, his breathing heavy and ragged. 'If you don't want this then stop me, please, for by God I'll not be able to stop myself.' His voice took on a tone of desperation and Arthur finally found that he could deny him, and himself, no longer.

'You may kiss me,' he replied at length, sounding more teasing than he intended. 'But we must do this quickly,' he continued with his usual commanding firmness. 'We must do all of it quickly and for God's sake don't make a sound.'

They were silent for a long, terrible moment, half-expecting a crowd of sailors to burst in and catch them at it. None came. The only sounds were the distant shouts of the night watch on deck, the creaking of ropes and rigging, the ever-present gasp of the waves and their own breathing. They would not be caught on this occasion. The moment passed and then, his heart thumping, Arthur felt Alfred tighten his embrace. Everything was very still. They stared into each other's eyes, emerald on sapphire. They were the only people in the world to each other. The dull background noises diminished until they were silence. He wrapped his own arms around Alfred, noticing as he did so the elegant form of his well-muscled figure and he was suddenly aware of his own slimness. Then, before he really knew what was happening, he felt the sudden and glorious heat of Alfred's lips against his own. He let himself luxuriate in the kiss, his first, for wonderful second but then, remembering that they were breaking the law of God and men, pulled away. He suddenly felt as though his bones had turned to glass and his entrails to water. For ten years, he had tamped down every flicker of immoral attraction but now, after resisting for so long, he had given in to his desires. He extricated himself from Alfred's embrace, not pausing to look back, and fled into his small washing-room. He knelt by the smooth china toilet bowl, dizzy and nauseous, a cold sweat coating his face and hands and cementing his shirt to his back. He was a sinner, a sodomite. He had kissed a man and liked it. In his mind, the voices of his parents echoed with the words on the pamphlets and intermingled with the sonorous, funereal clanging of church bells. If he hadn't been damned before, he realised, he certainly was now. Then, he felt his bile rising and was sick.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply and trying to calm the hot rushing in his body. A tense minute went by, then Alfred silently slipped in and knelt beside him, placing a soothing hand on his back. Arthur was too exhausted to squirm away. All he wanted to do was begin his life again as someone whose very existence was not a sin, a crime, an abomination.

'Did I… upset you?' Alfred asked hesitantly. 'I thought… I would never…' Arthur opened his eyes but the sudden feeling of great weight that had come over him caused him to shut them again.

'We should never have done that,' he mumbled, still bowed down under great roiling waves of sickness. He heard a sharp breath from Alfred, then felt him remove his hand. At this, he looked up at him. Alfred's face was set in a frown.

'Why do you care so much about these rules? It is the people who make these laws that are wrong, not us. Do not be so ashamed of your nature.' Arthur gave a weak, bitter laugh that stung his burnt throat.

'Ever the philosopher, so you are, Jones.'

'Call me Alfred,' Alfred interrupted. Arthur ignored him and carried on.

'Who is right or wrong in this great moral debate is immaterial. The fact is that we are seen to be sinners, criminals, hardly human. It is the way I was raised to see myself and others like me.' At this, Alfred wrapped his arms tightly around him and rested his head on his shoulder. Arthur could feel their two hearts beating in unison.

'I love you,' Alfred said earnestly. 'And, try as I might, I cannot bring myself to feel any sort of shame about something so pure and good.' He stood up and reached for Arthur's hand. 'Come. This is no place to be talking of such things.' And, with a great sense of reassurance and vindication, Arthur allowed himself to be led back out into the wardroom. At last, he felt no more shame about his predilections.

….

Another week passed more or less harmoniously. Arthur found that he and Alfred could conduct their assignations undisturbed if they chose the right times and places but he wished they didn't always have to be so rushed and nervous. Still, it was better than nothing. He was amazed at how quickly a decade of moral conditioning could be shrugged off when met with love but still hadn't worked out how to reconcile his preferences with the fact that his parents still expected him to marry. He tried to put such thoughts out of his head and smile when Alfred came into the room and sat down beside him.

'Good evening, my love,' he said tenderly. He tried to run his fingers through Arthur's hair but was shaken off.

'Alfred, please don't. We cannot afford to become careless.' Chastened, the American let his hand drop. He pouted.

'No one will see,' he protested weakly. Arthur stood firm.

'We cannot be certain. Your position is already compromised on account of those rumours.' Alfred blushed.

'I wish I had never gone there,' he muttered, 'but I was desperate. I could not be sure about you. I was always dropping hints and yet you never seemed to react. I was beginning to think I was wrong in my suspicions.' Ever paranoid, Arthur sat up a little straighter.

'Suspicions? What do you mean? Was it… obvious what I was?'

'No, love, don't worry yourself. I only recognised it in you because I first saw it in myself. Small things, really. Like the way you didn't care for women, or the way you didn't wish to discuss the subject of…' He broke off. 'I refuse to call it 'sodomy'. It is an awful word, one calculated to disgust. And there were other things. When I sang you that song, it was for you. You really were a man of sorrows. I could see that you were tortured. I wanted to help you but was afraid that I was wrong. I was unsure how much to admit.' Arthur cast a quick glance around to make sure they were unobserved, then clasped Alfred's hand in his own.

'You have helped me, my darling Alfred. More than that, you have saved me.'

….

…_The life of a sailor can be a lonely one but I am sure that your letters will bring me joy on dark days. Forgive the brevity of this letter, but there is a storm brewing and I must oversee procedures on deck. I extend my warmest regards to you and your parents and remain, as ever,_

_Your Faithful Servant_

_Captain Arthur Kirkland, RN_

He smiled to himself as he finished Miss Westerly's letter. There was no storm. The skies were absolutely clear and scarcely a breath of wind troubled the surface of the sea. But there were more important matters to attend to, namely music. He took his flute out of its case and called to Alfred in the next room. Perhaps some sailors were lonely, but he certainly was not.


	7. Chapter 7

A furtive, secretive month went by and Arthur found himself gradually becoming concerned about standards of behaviour among the sailors. A certain collective insolence seemed to have come over them: they responded to orders but did so slowly; a salute would more often than not be accompanied by a smirk; they were freer in their use of coarse and profane language. Arthur would have felt like a hypocrite to punish them when he and Alfred were themselves living in brazen disregard for the twenty-ninth article but something had to be done. Mutiny was a dirty word but sometimes the possibility had to be countenanced. To this end, one indolent Sunday afternoon, he called the sailors to assemble on the deck for a reading of the Articles of War.

'Men,' he began perfunctorily once they had reluctantly fallen silent, 'I am not unreasonable. I strive for fairness and to make sure that _Honourable _does not become a flogging ship but I have begun to notice a decline in standards this last month. The Jamaica station is an important one, and potentially lucrative for those attracted to the prospect of wealth, and I expect every man jack of you to treat this commission as what it is – conducted under the King's own orders. I understand that not all of you joined our crew willingly, but I would ask you to console yourselves with the knowledge that you are performing a duty far more worthwhile than ferrying sugar to England. You are defending England and her lands abroad. It is only a small number of you that need reminding but I have nonetheless decided to refresh your memories in terms of the Articles of War. And you would all do well to recall that they serve the purpose of law when we are on board. Mr Jones, if you please.' Alfred stepped forward and handed him the book. They shared a look, careful not to give anything away. There had been another flogging, just twelve lashes this time, on account of a slanderous comment about Alfred, something that had served as a powerful reminder of the need for secrecy. He opened at the first page and began to read in his most authoritative voice.

'All commanders, captains, and officers, in or belonging to any of His Majesty's ships or vessels of war, shall cause…' He allowed his mind to wander as his mouth mechanically recited the familiar words. The crew gave off an impression of rapt attention in the way they stood in submissive silence, formed up in relatively tidy lines presided over by barely-pubescent midshipmen, but their rebellious facial expressions told a different story. Arthur didn't worry too much about it as he scanned the deck. No one, himself included, wanted to be doing this at this time of day when there was gambling or drinking or Alfred to enjoy – although that last one was his personal vice. He allowed himself a small sigh of relief as he read out the eighteenth. Halfway there, he thought grimly. Around that time, conversations began to bubble up among the men. He spoke louder, expecting them to be quickly subdued by the marines. He soldiered on.

Number twenty-seven: 'No person in or belonging to the fleet shall sleep upon his watch, or negligently perform the duty imposed on him, or forsake his station, upon pain of death, or such other punishment as a court martial shall think fit to impose, and as the circumstances of the case shall require.' He said this one with particular emphasis. He, and the sailors, knew that negligence was becoming a problem.

Number twenty-eight: 'All murders committed by any person in the fleet, shall be punished with death by the sentence of a court martial.' He knew what was coming next. Alfred shifted a little beside him and Arthur shot him a glare. It was important to remain natural in the next few moments. He cleared his throat, ready to read out the twenty-ninth article.

'If any person in the fleet shall commit the unnatural and detestable sin of buggery and sodomy with man or beast, he shall be punished with death by the sentence of a court martial.' From near the back, a few ribald laughs could be heard and someone called out 'indeed!' Arthur was immediately on the defensive. Fortunately, he recognised the voice of the sailor in question.

'Indeed what, Lawton?' he demanded. The crew perked up, pleased to have a diversion from the deadly dull task of listening to the articles. They parted a little to allow the speaker to be seen. Arthur noted that he had an irritating, arrogant grin on his face.

'It is indeed an unnatural and detestable sin, sir!' he replied in a voice that was sinister in its cheerful nonchalance.

'We all know that very well, Lawton. It was not necessary for you to interrupt in order to enlighten us of that fact.' A few mutters rose from the crew.

'Well, if it were to take place, sir, would the offenders be punished?' Arthur heard a sharp intake of breath from Alfred and just about stopped himself from placing a hand on his own chest to calm his pounding heart. He hoped desperately that the heat in his cheeks was not matched by consummate redness, something that would serve as a beacon of his guilt.

'Of course. It is stipulated in the Articles of War.' he said coolly.

'Even if the men in question were officers?' Now he was really nervous. His throat was closing up and his chest felt tight.

'Yes, Lawton. There is no special provision for any ranks.' he said as neutrally as possible. 'Now, if your curiosity is satisfied, I very strongly suggest that you keep your opinions to yourself in future. We do not all wish to hear them.'

….

Arthur sat at his desk, replaying the events of earlier constantly in his mind. Alfred was on duty, so there was nothing to distract him from his worries as he puzzled over the significance of his run-in with the sailor. Opposing thoughts, optimistic and pessimistic, fought it out in his aching head. The man knew everything… He had only been bluffing… They were doomed… It was pure coincidence. Arthur knew how immature some men could become at the mention of sodomy and also knew that it was only one of a long list of things that could provoke a puerile reaction. But he couldn't help worrying. In lonely moments like this, away from Alfred, he would feel creeping misgivings about what they were doing. He no longer believed it to be immoral but he knew that it was perhaps imprudent for them to be doing what they were. Perhaps, he half-wondered, the only true way for men such as them to be safe was to hide themselves completely from any sort of publicity. He thought all these things but then, when Alfred appeared, he would forget them. He would be caught up in his smile, the warmth of his lips, his gentle touch, his handsome face not at all marred – indeed improved – by the glasses which suited him so well. Love, he realised grimly, was making him irrational, as it did so many men. The difference was that he could ill afford to be giddy and indiscreet. There was no one, beyond Alfred himself, in whom he could confide about such issues. To take his mind off everything, he picked up his pen and began to compose another mendacious letter home.

_Dear Mother and Father,_

_Nothing of any interest to report. The crew are a little unruly but I read them the articles this morning and this seemed to restore order. Father, I understand your concerns as a medical man, but there is no chance of my malaria recurring and at any rate our surgeon is most excellent. I find that…_

'Another letter home?' Alfred's voice interrupted his thoughts and he laughed as he scanned the text. 'How mannered you sound. Will you write something about me?' Arthur smiled and resumed writing.

_I find that Lieutenant Jones has risen admirably to the challenges of leadership and I have come to know him as a steadfast and dependable subordinate._

'I dare not write anything more complimentary for fear of making them suspicious.' he admitted, then a thought occurred to him. 'You never did tell me what happened between you and your father, though I can imagine the cause of your argument.' Alfred sighed heavily and sat down beside Arthur, just a fraction closer than a friend would.

'You are correct,' he said, his voice confessional. 'It was my own fault, really. I was careless. I went to the molly house one evening when I was last at home. My father was out at a dinner of some sort for loyalists and so I took the chance to go to the molly house. I was relieved to be on land for once and without responsibilities so I drank too much and ended up bringing one of them home. It transpired that my father had already arrived home and he met us on the stairs. My… visitor was sent away with boxed ears and the threat of death and I was shamed. From that day on, my father would not look at me. His only living son, last in the Jones line, was a sodomite. Those letters he sends me, they are nothing but vile insults, pages of them.' He looked as if he had just received one of those letters, his eyes brimming and focused firmly on the floor. Arthur, looking around as always to check for observers, reached out and clasped Alfred's hand.

'Do not think of such things. He is far from here, my love.' Alfred gave a watery smile.

'I can't help but worry. But you, how were you… caught?' Arthur shrugged.

'When I was thirteen and didn't yet understand these things, I pointed out a handsome boy to my mother. She was furious and beat me later. She told my father and he beat me too. My father, you see, is a doctor, and believes that the attraction I feel is a disease that can somehow be cured. I have led them to believe that I am indeed recovered.'

'So you were never found with a young man?' Arthur gave a bitter laugh.

'You forget the state of moral panic in which I lived for most of my youth. No, you are my first, Alfred. You are the only one.' Alfred looked surprised.

'Really? So the first time you kissed me was…'

'The first time I had kissed anyone, yes. But you are not my first love. There was a man, my best friend, whom I loved dearly, but I was afraid to say anything to him. He died. He was shot in battle without ever learning the truth of what I felt for him.' The memory of Francis's tragic death brought tears to his eyes and Alfred put a comforting arm around him.

'Is anyone around?' he asked in a whisper. Arthur shook his head and, always conscious of the need for silence, their lips met in a precious gesture of love, one Arthur could never have imagined experiencing just a few short months ago. The risk this act entailed made it only all the more valuable.

….

There had been an undercurrent of trouble brewing for quite a while on board _Honourable_. Arthur had hoped that his stern lecture and reading of the Articles of War would be enough to stave it off but now he was beginning to see that the problem was greater than he had first feared. It was the morning after the reading of the articles and he was teaching the midshipmen about navigation up on deck. For once, he had given them permission to remove their coats.

'Now, Kirkland, where would I be if my latitude was twenty-eight degrees west and my longitude thirty-three degrees north?' The boy, his thirteen-year-old cousin Peter, knitted his thick eyebrows together and chewed his bottom lip as he searched for an answer. Arthur sighed. He hated these lessons, particularly since his cousin was always trying to take liberties above his rank on account of their family connection. Fortunately for the lad, he was saved by a dispute breaking out a little way along the deck. With a curt order to the boys to stay where they were and try to work out the questions he had set them, he went to see what the problem was. As he had both expected and dreaded, Alfred was at the centre of it.

'What has this man done, Jones?' he asked wearily as he took in the scene. Alfred and one of the sailors were facing each other, fists clenched. Alfred's face wore an imperious look, the sailor's one of cold disrespect. Alfred turned to him.

'I gave him a direct order to go aloft and he will not obey. I have had the bosun start him and he persists in his stubbornness.' Arthur approached the man.

'You were given a direct order,' he said icily. 'And the punishment for disobedience, as you have so recently been reminded, is flogging. Bosun!' The bosun came over, eager to impose discipline. Arthur disliked the man, finding him brutal on occasion, but he did what was required. 'Clap this man in irons. Punishment tomorrow. Twenty lashes.' As the miscreant was led away, however, he called something out that chilled Arthur's blood.

'I know what you do!' he crowed. 'And if anyone doesn't, they soon will!

….

Arthur paced up and down the narrow confines of his cabin, his mind fevered. The man had meant nothing by it, nothing at all. It was a deliberately general statement, designed to inspire fear in anyone. Everyone, after all, had something to hide, no matter how small. He waited anxiously for Alfred to come off watch, deciding that their evening of music had best be postponed. They had more important things to discuss. As soon as the American walked in, Arthur accosted him.

'Alfred,' he said earnestly, 'I need you to tell me everything about what happened earlier.' Alfred looked taken aback.

'What about it?' Alfred rolled his eyes.

'Anything! You heard what he said.' He held up a hand, anticipating Alfred's response. 'Now, he may well have meant it generally but we need to address the possibility that he did not. If that is the case, we are in severe trouble, particularly since he is to be flogged tomorrow.'

'Well, in answer to your question, I told you everything earlier. There was nothing special in either his demeanour or choice of words to suggest any extra meaning they may have carried.' Arthur ran his hands through his hair, physically feeling the weight of worry and responsibility.

'I must confess that this frightens me. There is very little we can do. We cannot pardon him because he quite clearly merits punishment and doing so would send a message to the others that I have a secret. We must go through with the punishment even though he may tell the others as some sort of revenge.' Alfred put a reassuring hand on his arm.

'We can only wait and see, love. Even if they have… seen something, it would be the word of two commissioned officers against that of a lower-deck rating in a court martial. The case would be thrown out.'

'One would hope,' Arthur murmured despairingly.

There was no music that night.

….

Arthur forced himself to stand firm as the various preparations were made for the flogging. He was uncomfortably aware of how frequent these public displays of punishment had become but he was without any sort of choice. It was the lesser of two evils, the greater being anarchy. He read out the article in a voice that lacked any sort of emotion or expression and watched the man being flogged with his heart in his mouth, terrified that the miscreant would say something. Alfred stood stock-still beside him, a far cry from when he had been moved to tears by the sight of a man's bloodied back. Once the ritual was over, Arthur took a moment to speak to the men.

'I understand that several pieces of salacious gossip have been circulating among you and I feel that it is necessary for me to reiterate that spreading such baseless rumours is of no help to anyone and certainly does not contribute to the running of the ship. Some rumours may even be considered, in certain contexts, to constitute mutinous speech. Think on that and refrain from becoming involved. You would all do well to remember that the punishment for mutiny is death. Dismissed.' He turned away from them, only to whip sharply back round at the sound of yet another voice raised in insolence.

'That's not the only thing that carries a death sentence!' Arthur furiously looked from man to man, unsuccessfully searching for the culprit.

'I have no desire for yet another flogging, so I will not pursue whoever spoke just there. Many crimes carry a death sentence. Your comments add nothing whatsoever.' He turned sharply on his heel and went below, the shouts of the sailors ringing in his ears and adding up to an unpalatable realisation: he and Alfred had, in spite of all their precautions, been discovered.

….

**Historical Note: Not much today. Ok, so it was normal procedure to read the Articles of War every month or so or when the ship was newly commissioned. A 'flogging ship' was one with a reputation for excessive punishment. To 'start' a man was to hit him with a short cane in order to get him to work if he was slow or reluctant to obey an order, although this practice was overused and abused on many ships.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: So, dear readers, this is the last chapter. It's pretty intense and the ending, unfortunately, isn't a happy one, so if you're not ok with character death then please don't read on. Part of the reason I wrote this story was to show all the harm homophobia has caused in the past. There were many men like Alfred and Arthur, forced underground, forced to pretend to be different. And, as this story shows, some even died because of what they were.**

…

A few days after the flogging, _Honourable _was recalled to Jamaica. Arthur pored over the letter he had been sent, trying to detect some sort of subliminal message to it, some indication that his and Alfred's indiscretions had come to the attention of some higher authority. There was always the chance that the men could have written to the admiral. He cursed himself, angry at not having thought to censor their post but knowing at the same time that it would have served only to arouse further suspicion. He was barely clinging onto command as it was. Painfully, he had witnessed his authority being whittled away a little more with every passing day. Now it was only fear of the ultimate punishment that kept the men in line. He could only hope that any case against them would be dismissed, being the word of pressed men against that of two officers. Then again, maybe it was simply that such a large naval presence was no longer needed in the region. Perhaps he would be sent back to England to face his parents and, most likely, marriage to Miss Westerly, who had begun to write him stiffly polite letters, clearly done with her mother looking over her shoulder.

Now they were approaching land. Jamaica rose proud and green from the water, dovelike sails clustered in the harbour. He estimated that they would be coming into port in about three hours. Despite his worries, he was looking forward to the prospect of relinquishing his benighted command. Perhaps, all going well, he and Alfred could find somewhere, even for just a single, priceless moment, where they could be themselves without fear. In his heart, however, he knew it to be a forlorn hope. But he loved Alfred. He loved him so much that he would gladly die for him without a touch of regret. He felt beads of sweat rising along his brow in the stifling heat of his cabin and decided to go out on deck where Alfred, his Alfred, also was.

Once there, he took the opportunity to analyse the mood of the men. There was a sort of subdued joy among them as they went about their preparations for landing. Arthur wondered apprehensively whether their celebration might have a less innocent cause than the chance to waste their money in port. He climbed up to the quarterdeck and stood beside Alfred, feeling horribly on show in his elevated position.

'Have you seen the signal?' Alfred asked him in a low voice. Arthur shook his head and Alfred handed him the telescope, the brushing together of their hands a deliberate move this time. He lifted the instrument to his eye and focused it on the narrow line of flags on the mast of the admiral's flagship, his lips moving silently as he decoded each one, spelling out the words where they weren't including in the standard signal book.

'Captain… K-I-R-K-L-A-N-D… and… Lieutenant… J-O-N-E-S… to report… to the… flagship.' His hands trembled as he lowered the telescope and turned towards Alfred, a sick feeling in his stomach. 'This is the end,' he murmured. Alfred nodded grimly, understanding. 'If it were only me then it could be something else. But there is nothing else it could be, not with you.' Their eyes met and in that moment, they knew that nothing could be done for them.

'I love you,' Alfred whispered as they descended to the main deck to face whatever fate had in store for them.

'And I you,' Arthur replied. 'And that was our great mistake.'

…

The two stood awkwardly in the admiral's cabin, a calculated distance between them as they listened to his speech, the gravity of their situation gradually becoming apparent. Admiral Braginski was a formidable leader, of Russian descent, and known for his propensity for wearing scarves even in the tropics as he was now doing. Capable of both extreme generosity and psychotic rage, he was currently showing the latter side to the disgraced officers.

'I have received a letter signed by over fifty members of the crew that claims you two have been committing the vile crime of sodomy. Not only is it a mortal crime, it is a mortal sin as well.'

'Which sailors, sir?' Arthur asked timidly. He hated meetings with his superiors. 'We pressed ten men on the voyage and they have had an influence on the others. It may well have been that…' He tailed off at the sight of Braginski's furious expression.

'The signatories included the surgeon, sailing master and three of the four midshipmen – and I know very well that the fourth is your cousin. These men are to be trusted and so I have no choice but to call a court martial.' Arthur's eyes widened in terror.

'But sir…' The admiral banged his fist against the desk.

'This is a very serious accusation, Kirkland! If I do not give these men what they want, they will take it to mean that you are guilty. And there is such a body of evidence against you both that I very much doubt that a trial will clear your names.' Arthur paled.

'Very well, sir. When is the trial to be?'

'Tomorrow morning.'

…

Four walls. A barred window and door. A chamberpot in one corner. A low bed with a coarse grey blanket on it in the other. Until the morning, this would be all he would see. And somewhere in the grim building, Alfred was in an identical cell. Arthur sat down on the uninviting bed and buried his head in his hands. Never in all his life had he experienced such profound and miserable shame, not in all his years of suppressing his desires towards men. He and Alfred had been paraded to shore and then through town under armed guard, people stopping to stare and gossip. He had fallen far from his position as the darling of the West Indian fleet, their young prodigy. Almost any other charge would be less shameful, anything other than sodomy. Even mutiny could be justified on occasion, but never this.

If only, he thought, he had contained his feelings as he had done so many times before. If only he hadn't given in. He was going to die for daring to be a man who loved men, as Alfred had put it one evening when illustrating the unfairness of the law. But Arthur no longer cared about himself. What he did care about was the fact that Alfred too would die. Alfred, his true love, the one who had shown him that, no matter what people said, it was not a sin to be the way they were. He wished that there was some way to save him. The thought replayed in his head, its wistfulness irritating him. Some way to save him… save him… save him. Arthur sat bolt upright, a thought having come to him suddenly. He knew what to do. He knew how to save Alfred.

…..

Those in the courtroom stood as the three senior captains, the judges, filed in and took their places at the front of the room, facing those assembled. Arthur and Alfred's swords lay atop the judges' table, the blades winking tantalisingly. At the end of the trial, they would be handed back, hilt first for innocent, blade first for guilty. On the signal, everyone sat, and the senior judge began to read out the charges in a severe, powerful voice.

'Captain Arthur Kirkland and Lieutenant Alfred Jones of His Majesty's Ship the _Honourable_, it is charged that you, in breach of the Articles of War laid down by King George II, did commit the act of sodomy.' There were gasps and giggles among the crew. Arthur dropped his head in shame. Alfred refused to be bowed and in that moment Arthur loved him even more for his bravery and refusal to hide who he was. He knew he was right to do what he planned. The first witness was called forward, one of the men who had seen Alfred going into the molly house. He narrated the story with dramatic gestures and flourishes, enjoying his every moment in the limelight. Then came the man who had first brought Alfred's visit to Arthur's notice. And he was just as lascivious as ever.

'I was going about my innocent, Christian, God-fearing business one evening when said business chanced to take me by the wardroom. On arrival, I was attracted by the sound of the most heavenly music. The captain, you see, plays the flute. And the lieutenant sings. Like a woman.' He smiled smugly, as though Alfred having a high voice was proof of his predilections.

'You mean to say that he is a countertenor?' enquired the judge, the ghost of an amused smile on his face. The sailor gave a frown of confusion.

'Indeed, sir. Anyway, I was so struck by the beauty of the music that I confess that I felt compelled to listen through the keyhole. I was just kneeling to do such a thing when I spied something one perhaps would not expect to see. The music came to an end and so I took a peep to see the reason for this. And what I saw shocked me…'

'Spit it out!' demanded the senior captain, irritated by the man's deliberate grandiloquence.

'What I saw,' the sailor continued triumphantly, 'shocked me most greatly. 'For I saw the lieutenant with his hand on the captain's waist, kissing him as though he was…'

'That is enough.' The senior captain looked disgusted, a bad sign. Arthur tried not to blush. He remembered that evening clearly, only he had been absolutely sure that they were alone. All that caution for nothing. The other witnesses came and went, all making similar reports of what they had witnessed of the various trysts. When the last witness had testified, it was Arthur's turn.

Standing before the captains, he bleakly looked up at them, seeing the anger and disappointment on their faces as they prepared to send him, promising young officer as he was, to his death. But he would carry out his plan. He would stop Alfred, the man he so deeply loved, from suffering the same fate to which he had already reconciled himself. He stood facing rigidly, not daring to turn and look behind him, but the mutters and occasional snatches of laughter told their own story. They were pre-emptively celebrating his downfall.

'How do you plead?' The cold demand filtered its way through his layers of swarming thoughts. He swallowed and breathed deeply.

'I am guilty,' he said heavily, physically bending under the gasps of disgust and lewd comments that directly followed his revelation. 'But,' he continued in his most commanding voice, summoning from somewhere his last remnants of authority, cutting through the cacophony and restoring silence. 'Lieutenant Jones is not.'

'You speak in riddles. Explain yourself.' one of the judges demanded. Arthur took another deep breath. He knew he was a dead man but he hoped with all his heart that he could, with his next words, prevent Alfred from following him into the grave.

'I forced my attentions on him. I threatened and blackmailed him. He was unwilling and fought against this descent into sin and immorality. He only complied out of fear for his life and career, both of which I threatened to destroy if he did not go with me.' This done, he let his head drop with exhaustion. Having damned himself with these lies, he prayed that they would be enough to save Alfred.

'If that is so, why was he seen going into a molly house?' Arthur swore mentally. He hadn't thought of that. Thinking fast, he fumbled for an excuse.

'I sent him there to find me a molly. He visited the place but refused to carry out the task on account of its moral repugnance. Naturally, he was punished.' He was saying more than needed but he wanted there to be not even so much as a vanishing chance that any sort of guilt could be ascribed to Alfred.

They handed his sword back to him. Its blade was mere inches from his chest. The sentence: to be shot by firing squad on the deck of _Honourable _the following dawn.

…..

_Dear Mother and Father,_

_By the time you receive this letter, I will be dead, shot by firing squad for the crime of sodomy. I am sorry. I am sorry that I could not contain myself and that your efforts to protect me were in vain. And I know that you wanted to protect me, that your beatings were driven as much by fear for my safety as by cruelty. I am sorry for the shame I have brought onto our family. It was never my intention to do so. I love you both, and pray that we may one day meet again far from all this trouble._

_Your Loving, Loyal and Eternal Son,_

_Arthur_

At the sound of the door opening, he looked up sharply, expecting it to be a guard. Instead, it was Alfred who walked in.

'How did you manage to get in here?' he demanded, hoping desperately that Alfred hadn't somehow sneaked in, thereby ruining his plan.

'I told them I wanted to… forgive you. They believed me, but our time can be but short if we do not want to arouse suspicion. The guard is walking the corridor. When we hear his footsteps returning, it is then that I must leave you.' Arthur took a step towards him, lowering his voice to a whisper.

'Are you sure?' Alfred hesitantly approached him and embraced him tightly.

'I am.' He sniffed, and when he spoke again his voice was tearful. 'Why?'

'Because I love you. Had I not said what I did, we would be both be facing death. Now, at least, you have a chance to live.' He was almost babbling, speaking desperately in his haste to get the words out before it was too late. 'You want to be a great admiral, don't you?'

'Yes, yes, but so do you!' Arthur sighed sadly and rested his head against Alfred's shoulder.

'You'll have to live both of our lives then. And promise that you'll never do what we did ever again. Your reputation is besmirched. If you are caught a second time, they will realise the truth.'

'I could never replace you!' Alfred cried defiantly. Then, he stiffened and looked up, straining his ears.

'Our time is up,' he muttered as the guard's footsteps became audible, echoing on the flagstones as he approached along the corridor. Arthur felt Alfred's arms tightening around him and then their lips met in one final, fleeting kiss, the summation of all those that they would now never share.

And then they broke apart and Alfred was opening the door, his hand raised in salute to a brave and selfless man, Arthur. He was slipping out and shutting it behind him with a thud. And then his shoes went click-clacking away and his voice rose and fell as he conversed with the guard and then both these sounds faded and became nothing and then Arthur was alone, a condemned man left to face the long, final night of his life in a stark, empty cell.

…..

The deck was in total silence, the only sound being the languid, unhurried slap of warm waves against the side of the ship and the weak moan of wind through the rigging. The jeers and cries of 'sodomite' had subsided, a reverential hush descending over the scene of imminent death. Even though he was blindfolded, he could still have navigated the ship – his ship – from end to end. Even though he was kneeling on a cushion, he could still feel the hard boards of the deck underneath him. In his right hand was clutched a white handkerchief, before him knelt a firing squad. In a moment, he would be expected to drop it and the marines would release their volley. He had a few blessed seconds until then. He filled his mind with his most treasured memories of Alfred, pushing all fears of death to one side. He imagined his parents back in England, sipping tea in their cold parlour, and wondered about how they would feel losing their only son in such dishonourable circumstances. He let himself think about that for a solitary moment, then thought of Alfred again. He thought of their first meeting, when he had been so captivated; he thought of the surreptitious brushes of their hands together, when it first became clear that this contact was deliberate rather than accidental. He thought of when he had first become brave enough to acknowledge Alfred's hinting with some of his own. He remembered their first kiss, so silent and secret, conducted with such haste and caution, then how they had loved each other so truly and completely, not a single inch of one unknown to or unloved by the other. They had paid for their pleasure.

Still, it was too late to muse on lost things. All he could do was be grateful for their precious, stolen time together. The crowd was growing restless, waiting for the brief and brutal spectacle to begin. He formed a memory in his mind; no, not a memory, an emotion, the exhilarating, transcendent mix of tingling excitement and pure bliss that only Alfred could provoke in him. A tiny, mournful smile crept onto his lips as he imagined Alfred's arms encircling his waist, his warmth and beating heart against his back.

Still smiling, he dropped the handkerchief.


	9. Honour Reclaimed

**Author's Note: Hey readers! This was just a little oneshot I dashed off while planning out my next chapters for 'Sharp Seville Oranges' and 'Between Sea and Shore'. This story gives enough detail of 'A Bleeding Heart of Oak' to be read alone but really, as it's as sequel, it makes more sense if you read both. Hope you enjoy! **

…..

All over England, people were gathered around the clocks in their parlours and drawing rooms or out in the town squares buttoned up against the chill as they waited eagerly, counting down the minutes to midnight. In just a little while, the seconds would tick over, midnight would strike and the new year 1845 would begin. Admiral Alfred F. Jones took no part in the celebrations. He was old now, born in 1765, and the years had long ago begun to merge together, nothing to mark any one of them out from another. And, on this particular night, he was alone.

Sitting at his desk and staring out into the night, he took a moment to reflect on his life. He had had a wonderfully successful naval career, climbing steadily up the promotion ladder and making admiral at the age of fifty. There had been times, as a young captain on endless blockade duty, when he had wondered whether there was really a point to it all, whether he wouldn't just be better off making a living somehow on land. But he would never really have given up, for there was a reason for him to work hard, to push himself forward and reach the highest rank. That reason was his true love. And, he thought bitterly, wasn't it just his luck that his true love happened to be a man. A man named Arthur Kirkland. He pulled his coat a little more tightly around himself. It only took a sharp breath of wind to remind him that he was no longer a youth of nineteen and that nature would soon be coming after him, looking to claim him as its own. He could feel his end approaching.

He had met Arthur in 1785, when he had just passed for lieutenant with the ink barely dry on his letter of commission. It had been a different Navy then and beyond that a different world. The ships had still been elegantly crafted of wood, glittering glass windows in the stern and acres of canvas looping from mast to mast and creating a network of sails, one whose majestic complexity took years to master. He had still worn breeches then, breeches and a tailcoat and a spray of lace at his throat, and had his hair – still sandy back then, now a resolute steely grey – bound with a black ribbon, tied in a queue that just about reached his shoulders. And he had come aboard his new ship, HMS _Honourable_, to find himself face-to-face with the most instantly captivating man he had ever seen. His first meeting with Arthur had been far from romantic, of course. The man was businesslike to the point of terse, his green eyes far more likely to be flashing with irritation than shining with love or joy. That would come later. But from the start he showed himself to be a good captain and a better man, and for that Alfred loved him.

Therein lay the problem. Alfred was not supposed to love men, although he always had. He knew this, and he knew the injustice of it, but there was nothing he could do about it. Even sixty years later, he mused, the state of affairs was still the same, perhaps even worse. The secretive licentiousness of the molly houses was a thing of the past, a shameful memory from the days of powdered wigs. Arthur too had known he should not love men, but unlike Alfred he had believed this wholeheartedly. He had tortured himself about it, suppressed and failed to acknowledge every bit of attraction he felt. And yet Alfred had still loved him.

He had loved the sound of his light voice with its cultivated air of education, then the more natural tone with its faintest whisper of a country accent when the two of them were alone and could let their guard drop. He had loved the way Arthur would always try to be serious, even when he wanted to laugh, because you didn't get rid of a military bearing _that_ easily. And he had loved the sound of his flute; so talented, he had always played it like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it was a part of his body or a manifestation of his soul. And Alfred had sung with him, their duets a perfect union of their respective instruments. He couldn't sing like that anymore, and he was no longer interested in trying. His upper notes had vanished long ago, as his voice had begun to age and crack and lose its powerful, oratorical resonance. Above all, he had loved Arthur the man. He had loved his slim figure, the delicate roundness of his hips and shoulders, his ash-blonde hair that was always a mess, his green eyes that had always shone. And… Arthur…

Alfred put his head in his hands. He had known from the beginning, even as he had prayed that somewhere, somehow they could be happy, that their love could never last. And it had not. They had been seen, observed by mutinous sailors who had come to suspect something. They had stood in court and heard the charge of sodomy being read out against them. They had heard the statements of the various witnesses and watched the judges' expressions becoming ever more credulous with each story they heard. And he had seen Arthur, his beautiful, beloved Arthur, stand boldly and say that Alfred was blameless, that he had forced and blackmailed him into committing such acts. He had damned himself, knowing he was already doomed, to save the one whom he had loved. And that evening, Alfred had bribed his way into Arthur's cell to see him and to swear that he would never, as long as he lived, love another. And from him, Arthur had elicited a promise from him that he would always strive to achieve the best and live both their dreams. Then, they had kissed for the last time, and Alfred had left. Arthur had been shot by firing squad for the crime of sodomy the next morning.

The years had passed, as years will, but not a single one of them had held even a fraction as much joy as those wonderful, short weeks of 1785. He had married, to avoid arousing suspicion, even though he felt like he was being disloyal to Arthur in doing so. His wife had been an Englishwoman named Alice – pretty and, more importantly, rich – and she had, in some vague way, reminded him of Arthur. They had produced a couple of children but he had never loved her. He could never have loved her, even if he had wanted to. He had loved, and still loved, even sixty years later, a man who had died under the ceaseless Jamaica sun, who had given his life so that his true love could live. No amount of time could restore his heart to him. It was where it belonged – with Arthur. And what a sad life he had lived, all these empty, loveless years. Oh yes, he had been successful. He knew what it was like to have a bloodied, exhausted enemy captain on his knees to offer his sword in surrender. He had felt the steady anticipation of climbing to the top of the Captains' List. He had felt the ancient weight of ceremony on his shoulders when, at the age of thirty-five, he came to be knighted for his heroism in battle. But although none of these things particularly mattered to him, he knew they would have mattered to Arthur, and it was this that sustained him; this that had sustained him through the profound loneliness of his life.

….

Alfred was an eminent man with a veritable gallery of medals emblazoned on his chest and a sought-after dinner guest at every table. He was an American in the Royal Navy, after all, and long after the actual hostilities had died down there had continued to be a feeling of strangeness, of rarefaction, about him. Tonight, he was presenting a speech at a dinner for young officers, fresh-faced young men at the start of their careers. A look from the captain presiding over the meal, the ringing of a fork against a glass, and he rose to his feet. His whole body creaked like an old ship as he stood. He could feel the weight of death beginning to settle on him, had begun to feel it a while ago, and it was for this reason that he was doing what he was doing tonight. Tonight, he would see Arthur's honour reclaimed.

'Gentlemen,' he began, his voice reedy even to his own ears. 'Gentlemen, tonight I could have chosen to speak to you on any manner of thing. I could have discussed the examples of brave men, but I have no doubt that you will have studied a plethora of Nelsons, Hostes and St Vincents in your time. I could have discussed modern warfare, but I am an old man and do not understand these new steamships, and so I could have offered you only the most generic advice. It is for this reason, then, that I have decided to speak to you on a far more enduring subject: honour.

A few of you may one day find that you are called upon to defend your honour in a court martial. It could be a trivial thing: perhaps you have neglected to keep your logbook in good order, or punished a man excessively when a measure of restraint might have been needed. Or you may stand trial for far more serious matters. You may find yourselves having to justify withdrawing from battle, failure to engage the enemy or even mutiny. In this situation, the actual punishment plays little part: it is the honour, or threat to it, that is the most important. Naturally, the most desirable outcome is that you are found innocent and honourably acquitted. But you may find that, even if you are not punished, the stain on your reputation is so great that you are never employed again. My advice to you, therefore, is to conduct yourselves with the utmost honour, even in the most difficult of situations. And if a cause is worth fighting, then fight for it.' He paused to look around the room. The young men were watching him with rapt attention; he dismissed it – they would have watched a dancing dog with the same devotion if they thought it would give them a chance of promotion. He continued.

'I was once court-martialled myself. I doubt any of you are aware; it was sixty years ago, when I was a lieutenant of nineteen. The crime with which I was charged was sodomy.' This drew some gasps, a few cries of horror and disgust. He was used to this, and pressed on. 'And a man, Captain Arthur Kirkland, was standing trial with me. He lost his honour most absolutely. He claimed, to the judges, that he had forced me to commit unnatural acts, that I was innocent. He lied. He lied to protect me and my honour and in the process sacrificed himself. I am an old man now; at last I can say this without fear. I loved Arthur Kirkland, and he had more honour, dignity and courage in him than any man I have ever met.' Uproar had broken out and Alfred sat down with a serene smile on his face. Arthur had given him everything; it was time that he returned the favour.


End file.
